queer. 

a bruise-purple word. 

a sticky syllable clinging to the 

edge of my tongue. 

what did you mean when you danced 

in the dark corners of language?

perhaps the off-kilter paintings in a gallery, 

or the poems that refuse to rhyme, 

or the sculptures made from found objects.

did you mean the love that 

dares to speak its name aloud 

to a world that would rather it swallow itself whole? 

a cloak thrown over shoulders too broad to be named?

the whisper of silk against stubble? 

a defiant shade of lipstick smeared across a jawline?

perhaps you meant the refusal to nod along 

with the drone. 

the way we tilt our heads, unsatisfied 

by the lies fed to us with a surgeon’s precision 

and a lover’s tenderness.

is queer the hand that reaches, 

not knowing if it will be met, 

but reaching anyway? 

perhaps attempting to define you defeats your purpose. 

if anything, you are sincere.