I have more to say than literary critiques.

My heart, pounding, screaming, knows that Shakespeare is queer --

He is one of us; historians now know it.

     My whole class is saying whoever Sonnet Eighteen

     (Some sweet woman) was about is immortalized.

     “She,” “this woman,” perfect, was a sight to behold,

     TAs, students, friends all say. But wait! Queerness lives!

Several courses later, my tutorials hear

“The key is context -- Shakespeare wrote this for a man.”

Not the first time. Not the last time I’ll announce it.

Early, tutorials know: I’m queer, and I’m angry.

     Heart palpitations and all, pronouns in Zoom name,

     I pick battles so peers know we were always here.

It’s been months since I swam down at the shore.

I would dig my fingers deep in the sand,

Soft soils slipping between my palms,

 Searching for smooth, supple rocks

Just waiting to be skipped.

I’d toss them to sea,

Just to see the

Seconds they

Seemed to

Soar.

Catch

The rocks

That creation

Skips out to you:

Mom’s calls to go home

May mean missing the beach

Months later when she calls less.

Saltwater breezes smell something

Like the swims I took for granted when

I thought sand castles would be forever.

Flecks of soft violet

Sprinkled with dawn’s loving dew:

Breeze blows; lovers sigh.

The rolling hills,

Oh still they sigh;

The breeze calls out my name.

The trees bend down,

To shake my hands;

In heart like friends they stay.

Meander on,

Oh gentle brook;

Past where my eyes can see.

Pasture, caress

My leaden feet;

When shall I here leave?