Pride

Monument

I am at the monument to gay people persecuted during the war.
Steps lead to a point
Which looks to a future, the sign reads
Water in the canal comes up against the strong stone,
And recedes.
There are a group of women sitting on the steps dressed all in black.
They have champagne flutes in their hands
And are speaking a language I don’t understand
It looks like a celebration,
And in a way it is,
They move forward and place white flowers
At the furthermost point
Position them carefully across each other.
Memories flow over and into the water
Carried through the air
Moved by their grief.
The celebration of a life left,
Taking the next step, the loss felt.
I hope the person knew how much their friends cared.
There are tears now,
But they pool close
To one another.
EMC
Photo by the author 

For Orlando

It is said that sexuality doesn’t define,

And no, don’t write me off.

But it is written through me,

Entwined on each fibrous level.

Meshed, hooked and looped from eye to toe.

It even began to taste sweet.

So it shatters my heart,

Rips the tissues apart,

When infiltrated by those who have hated.

 

Occupying secret spaces,

We have shared language and masked our faces.

Rites of passage thought wrong,

Wandering the straight and narrow for too long.

Until, you dare to deviate otherwise.

Hands contorted from decades of doors prised,

open.

 

I am tired, but they can’t wake up.

From the playground taunts to the political haunts,

Every word led to here.

EMC

Originally exhibited as part of the Stonewall Season, November 2016.

Photo by the author.