Because I like you. He puts a berry
to my lips. And because you’re beautiful.
Instinctively I suck the fruit onto my tongue,
crush it against the roof of my mouth, go weak
at the intense rush of pleasure. “Thank you.” It
comes out a whisper. “I promise not to tell.”
Jerome Isn’t Quite Finished
He takes my hand, caresses it gently before
placing the other two berries on my palm.
If you’re really good at keeping secrets …
His eyes bore into mine. Something feral
pacing there. We could have a little fun.
If you be good to me, I’ll be really good
to you. Strawberries are just the beginning.
Cheese. Meat. Chocolate. Maybe even some
shampoo to use instead of that vile soap.
He touches my hair. I bet it’s pretty
when it’s clean. I bet it smells like rain.
Here now. What did I say? Don’t cry.
A recollection clutches my throat,
chokes. It’s Andrew’s voice, surfacing
like a creature, dead and bloated,
from deep sea. Smells like rain.
Pain throbs. No, not pain, not even
agony. Something there is no word for.
Something I can’t fight. Can’t fight. Can’t.
All I can think to do is say, “S-sorry.”
My head spins. My legs go numb.
Jerome catches me as I collapse, and my tears
soak into his bleached white shirt. Okay,
baby, he soothes. Go ahead and cry.
I should jerk away, out of his arms, but
his gentle rock cradles my loneliness.
There is nurturing here, and it comes to me,
with a whoosh like sudden wind, that there just
might be a way out after all. And that way
could very well begin and end with Jerome.
So When He Kisses
The top of my head, I stay perfectly
still against him. And when his hands
begin a slow journey over the landscape
of my body, I grit my teeth. Do not
protest. Will not complain. Forgive
me, Andrew. Please understand.
It’s my only way back to you. But
I won’t give him everything.
I go as far as to let him open my blouse,
touch beneath my bra. Now he kisses
down my neck, to the skin he has just
exposed. Drawn tight up against him,
I feel him grown hard against my thigh.
Now it’s he who shakes. Shivers
with hunger, and just like that, I am
in control. I push him away, but tenderly,
like a mother convincing the infant
at her breast that he’s had enough.
I make my voice light. “That’s all
you get for three strawberries.”
He is pliable. Clay. He smiles, clearly into
the game this has unmistakably become.
Fair enough. Father would probably miss
me now anyway. Just one question …
He helps himself to a final taste.
What will you give me for ice cream?
I back away, closing buttons. Reach
down deep for the “inner whore”
Father claims all women harbor inside.
I smile. “Häagen-Dazs or store brand?”
The Door Locks
Behind Jerome, who promised
to see what I can do about Cherry
Garcia. Dirtied, I drop to the floor, tuck
my back into a corner, as if walls could
protect me. Lord, please forgive this
sin. What I’ve done. What I may do,
though I’m not exactly sure what that
might be. All I know is I have to escape
this place, run far, far away. From here.
From home. Toward what, I don’t know,
except somehow, some way, that “what”
must bring me closer to Andrew. I’m tired.
Hungry. I glance at the bowl on the table,
oatmeal grown granite cold inside it.
I want pancakes. An omelet with sausage.
I want the key to this unbarred cell.
Jerome has perhaps offered it, if I will
only reach for it. I close my eyes. Think
of Mary Magdalene. What was her prison?
And how far did she go to get the key?
Some Biblical Scholars
Believe Magdalene wasn’t really
a prostitute at all, but the woman
most loved by Jesus. A few even
think they might have been married.
Papa preaches that she was a whore,
reformed by the love of Christ. No sex
involved in the reformation. Mama echoes
this tale. But Mama thinks I’m a whore
too. A laugh bubbles up, bounces off
the barren walls. What incredible irony.
Sorry, Mama. Making love with Andrew
didn’t make me a whore. But sending me
here might very well do exactly that.
I have nothing to lose. You’ve already
stolen everything important. Made me
an outcast. Tossed me into this wilderness
How far will I go to get the key?
To Know That
I need to find out what Father has in store
for me. We meet every afternoon except
on Sunday (no work on the Sabbath),
for “prayerful counseling.” So far,
it’s the only time I’m allowed out of my
room, into the sunlight, the sage-tainted air.
There are two long, low buildings, with
rows of doors just like mine. I’m not
the only one here. Once in a while, I see
other kids, working alone in the garden
or shoveling manure from the chicken
coops. Punishment? My guess is reward.
There are smaller cottages, too—staff
residences, I’m sure. A large house looms
in the distance. Father’s, no doubt. Wonder
if there’s a Mrs. Father. Probably not.
The chapel is large, with rows of chairs,
so I imagine there are Sunday services
that I’m still not holy enough to attend.
Don’t know if there are classrooms
somewhere, or if any of us juvenile
delinquents are allowed schooling
other than what’s taught in the Bible.
It’s the only book I have in my room,
and I have to admit with no TV or other
distractions, I’ve read more Old Testament
here than ever before. Today as I walk,
escorted, to the chapel, the compound
looks deserted. How many of us are there,
biding our time in solitary, entertaining
ourselves with Leviticus? Do those further
on their way toward rehabilitation interact?
How many will actually be rehabilitated?
What exactly does that mean, and how is it
accomplished? How does someone leave
this place? No harm in asking, is there?
A Dozen Questions
Fill my head as I enter the chapel.
Father’s office is tucked in back
of the altar. He is working at his
computer but turns and stands
as we enter. Welcome, Eden. Brother
Stephen, you may leave us. He motions
for me to sit before launching into
a long-winded entreaty to the Lord
to deliver wisdom. To me, obviously.
Fa
ther already knows everything.
I keep that to myself, of course.
In fact, I say nothing as he “counsels”
me on how I might return to the Path
Toward Salvation. Finally he finishes
and actually gives me the opening I need.
Do you have any questions for me?
I pretend thoughtfulness for a second.
“I’ve had lots and lots of time to think,
and I really believe you’ve opened
my eyes to my sinful ways. I was just
wondering what I have to do to prove
that to you so I can go back home.”
He smiles. But it is a cheetah’s smile.
Do you really believe I’m so foolish?
I find no hint of contrition in you.
What I see before me is a liar. Still,
you’re not stupid. So you must understand
that your behavior reflects on your parents.
They don’t want you to come home, do
not want your tarnish on their sterling
community standing, or for you to influence
your sister to repeat your mistakes.
You will be here for the foreseeable future.
Shall we decide to make the best of it?
Of course. I should have known. “Thank you,”
I say, meaning it. Because he just gave me
permission to do what it is I need to do. I am
completely resolute to leave this place. Soon.
A Poem by Seth Parnell
What I Need
Is something intangible,
and so, unattainable
because it is ever
changing.
Neither can what I want
be defined. To someone
standing on the
outside
perimeters of my life,
I might look one
hundred percent
the same.
But if they had
the ability to split
me open, look deep
inside,
they would know
the mask that
appears to be
my face
is painted over
the real me, smoke
and mirrors,
an illusion.
Seth
Graduation Came and Went
Whoopee. Finally free
of educational necessity.
No more pencils, no more
books. No more Janet
Winkler’s dirty looks.
I’ve got to stop drinking.
But not right now. What
else is there to do around
here? Funny, but not so long
ago, I swore I’d be off to college.
Now I really don’t care
about moving on. What
was I thinking? I’ll never
go on to school. What for?
My destiny was decided
for me by the circumstances
of my birth. Hick boy from
Indiana. What am I going to
do? Turn into a rock star?
Or maybe run for president?
Yeah, I Know
The state of Indiana has
produced one of each. But
neither was gay. So hurray.
It’s farming for me. Oh well.
At least this little piece of
enlightenment has brought
me closer to Dad. No more
long afternoons in Kentucky,
though I do sneak off and
meet Carl every now and again.
Not for love, but for lust.
As older guys go, he’s not
so bad in the sack. And
besides, he’s incredibly
generous with the same
sort of perks I got from
Loren. Gourmet dinners.
Theater and concerts.
Art house movies. Only
with Carl, the maître d’s
know him by name, and sit
us at view tables. He’s got
off-Broadway season tickets,
not to mention box seats
at Churchill Downs. I’m not
a big gambler, and know
squat about horse racing.
But Carl knows enough
for both of us. And it is
his money we wager.
Beyond any rush at the rare
win, I love the atmosphere.
Rich people, outfitted in
elegance, sipping mint juleps
and inhaling the extravagant
potpourri of leather, grass
hay, and Thoroughbred
manure. It’s a sensual
experience, highlighted by
Carl’s commanding presence.
He hasn’t made me forget
Loren, or soothed the sting
of desertion, but he has made
me realize that I don’t have
to live my life in isolation.
Thinking of Loren
Makes me want liquor.
Dad isn’t much of a drinker,
but there’s usually beer
in the fridge, and the afternoon
is hot for June. A cold brew
sounds pretty damn fine.
I’m done tending garden
for the day. Carrying gray
water by the bucketful.
Looking up into the sharp
blue sky, no sign of rain.
We can grow vegetables
this way, but the corn looks
mighty thirsty. We could lose
the whole crop, if God
doesn’t cooperate. Weird,
but not a hundred miles
from here in Illinois, they’re
drowning under monstrous
thundershowers. Just goes
to show the randomness
of the Almighty’s hand.
Hey, Ma, if you’re up there,
could you put in a good word
for the farm you left behind?
I Go into the Cool
Of the house. “Dad?” He has
drawn the shades, flipped
the small window air con on.
The faux breeze it has raised
blows gently over the sweat
on my face. Aaaaah! Soap
and water attack the grime
on my hands, and now it’s
Miller time! I reach into
the fridge, find a frosty can,
pop the top, take a long
swallow. A voice falls
over my shoulder like
a shadow. Who the hell
are you? Iron hands—
Dad’s hands—grab hold
of my shoulders, spin
me around to face him.
The look in his eyes
is a blend of disbelief and
revulsion. He knows.
But, “How?” He points
to the kitchen table, to
the envelope and pages
lying spread across it.
I gather Loren’s letter, glance
at the words, talking
about his church, his new
home, his congregation.
Talking about missing me,
wishing there was a way
we could be together. It’s not
pornographic, but there is
enough detail so Dad can
have no doubt what it means.
I saw a New York postmark.
Thought maybe it was from
a college or something.
My God, Seth. How could
you? How long have you … ?
A vortex of emotions—anger,
relief, fear—roil together,
geyser from my mouth,
“I’ve been gay—can you
even say the word gay?—
since I was born, Dad.
This”—I wave the letter
in front of his face—“is
who I am. Who I’ve always
been. I can’t change that.”
I’d Give Anything
Not to cry. To prove, no
matter my sexual lean,
that I am every inch a man.
But tears overflow my eyes,
stream down my face.
The only good thing is,
Dad’s crying too. And
he’s definitely straight.
But he says, No, no, no.
You can’t be … He can’t
say the word, after all.
Thank God your mother
didn’t find out about this
before she … It would
have killed her. Sooner …
“No, Dad! How can you
say that? Mom would
have been all right with
it. She loved me. Just like
I am. Even if I am gay.”
He goes silent. Shrinks
somehow, like a corpse
too long in the sun. She
would not have accepted this.
And neither can I. Not ever.
“Please, Dad.” I reach out
for him but he recoils, as if
“gay” was something you
could catch. Time. It will take
time. That’s all. “Please?”
He shakes his head. Hard.
Homosexuality is a sin, an
abomination in the eyes of
God. Just the thought of you …
His eyes go flat, drained
of love for me. Temporary,
right? I kept hoping you’d
find the right girl, bring her
home. Get married. Have kids.
But not some—some man!
Not in my house. Not in my
face. Oh my God. What if
you have AIDS? Or some
other sick homo disease?
He slows. Catches his breath.
Considers some moments
before he says, You have
to go. Pack your stuff and get
the hell out of here. He turns
his back to me. And I know
there is nothing I can say
to make him change his
mind. Still, I have to try.
I swallow the mounting
hysteria. Keep my voice
low. “I’d say I was sorry,
but I can’t apologize for
being who I am. I didn’t ask
to be gay. I was born this way,
and if you think it’s been easy,
living a lie and knowing
this day might come,
you’d be wrong. I’m still
the same person I was before
you found out. Still your s—”
His head starts moving back