6.13 / Queer Two

Tonight, Tonight

Chris Emslie

[wpaudio url=”/audio/6_13/Emslie.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]

I still hate the song. He fucked me
on the comedown
from his Boston ‘e’ party, quick
and neat as a well-done

execution. His young stubble
grazed my shoulder,
he feigned sleep when someone
knuckled his door.

The most romantic words he knew
were all right, let’s go
but I drew them in like his soft
imported smoke.

Later when he leaked from me
in the bathroom stall
I felt stupid and turned over,
a stopgap for a girl.

Months after the fact his Canadian
Ken doll neighbour
made an AIDS joke, gun-barrelled
frat boy laughter.

I didn’t punch him, like I didn’t punch
the South-and-proud
A&F scout who threw out faggot
easy as bro and dude.

Patrick swept the Atlantic to get away,
set himself straight.
I think I was born running: four years ago,
in six months, tonight.

Chris Emslie is assistant editor at ILK. He lives in Scotland where they hang antlered skulls in the trees. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Specter, Red Lightbulbs and Lambda Literary Review, among others. He is exporting himself because his heart is a suitcase.