I am intensely kind, sure
but you mustn’t mistake my
kindness for weakness –
akin to the breeze rustling
the Ginkgo trees, I can become
strong or gentle accordingly.
Your toxic masculinity may deter
others, but, honey, that won’t
work on me. And so I want
to write an ode to the queer
women who have shaped me. Who,
after an ACT UP meeting say,
“Why did this happen?” while
chain-smoking with the windows rolled
up the entire ride home.
I want to write an ode to the queer
women who have shaped me, who
created their own haven:
Hands black with Earth,
they patiently brought seeds to bloom,
their very own garden of Eden.
The bright colors of the petals they
grew were just as plentiful as
the rainbow pins tucked upon their overalls.
“You just have to be patient,”
Nancy says, as she tucks a new
seed beneath the folds of the earth.
“It’ll be okay, you know.”
Glancing from her perch in the soil
she smiles before continuing, “Vickie
and I have been through so much:
Look! Look at what we’ve created.”
I want to write an ode to the queer
women who have shaped me. Who
made their own garden and told
me: “Gays make the best gardens.”
I want to write an ode to the queer
women who have shaped me and
said: “You know that guy who
walks his dogs all over town? What’s his
name again, Nancy? Tom? Jake? Total
fag. You should talk to him, honey.”
I want to write an ode to the queer women
who have shaped me. Who, in between drags of
their Marlboro Ultra Lights tell me, consolingly,
“I was broken up with once, too. You know
her. Susan? Yeah. Squat? Pinched nose?
Yeah she was real cunty. Big bush, too!
Almost as big as this guy.” She points to
a buddleya, or butterfly bush, “but you
know that was the 70’s.” She lights
another cigarette as if she didn’t just
tell her grandson something entirely
inappropriate. And so as I take a drag
from my own cigarette, I look around and notice
the stark contrast between the purple petals
and orange wings of the butterflies surrounding
the bush. I want to write an ode to the
queer women who have shaped me, who
tell me I’m okay. Who tell me
“Just because you’re gay doesn’t mean
you can’t have everything. And, hey,
at least you have us.”
Kenneth Nolan III, who was the Poetry Editor for this issue, is a junior from Marietta, Pennsylvania. Majoring in Creative Writing, his hobbies include reading, writing, painting, and listening to Kate Bush while looking solemnly outside his window.