Poetry |

“The Boys, Waiting (Petaled Gloaming)”

The Boys, Waiting (Petaled Gloaming)

after John Dugdale’s “Empire Chair in the Gloaming”

 

The boys are dying like the daylight.

The boys are beautiful, dying — a vase

of cut sunflowers. Heavy-petaled heads

drooping on wearied neck-stems. Shedding

skins like white nightshirts; hanging

them on the backs of doors which lead

to empty bedrooms. The gloaming

 

lays its bruised sheen, its yellow-

purple glow over every thing. A chair

waits, empty, to hold a lover. A chair, even

armless, can hold you like a lover; a lover,

like a chair, will wait. Though not forever.

 

There was a chair which held me

in the long Chicago afternoons, when I

took a few moments to sketch my

horoscope of dust motes while waiting

for dusk and my lover’s return

home. The same chair where he later

sat to break us apart. He was tired

of waiting. Tired of not being handy

enough to repair my heavy sorrows.

You can mend a chair with nails

and glue—but for a lover, that will never

do. There was another chair, green,

 

child-sized, where I sat when they told

me Saul had died. Unglued by

complications from untreated HIV,

and bipolar disorder, and he’d quit lithium

cold, sudden. He was a queer anarchist

with a mouth on him so when hassled

by a cop for riding his bike

on the sidewalk he jumped off, bike chain

clutched in his scabbed fists.

Come at me, pig.

 

One little piggy became two, then three.

They smeared his face into twilight, his

mouth into a wet bruise. His teeth strewn

like petals on the filthy pavement.

Loves me, loves me not.

 

That same chair, I once sat in stoned

and soaked. Listening to the heavy

downpour through the ripped window-

screen. Drops bucket-drumming on

roofs and rushing into gutters. The lovers

waited for the party to start. Where are

the Bridgehouse boys? someone asked. Where

are all the boys? All the boys are drooping their

sunflowered heads in the flooded gutters.

All the boys are homeless, and they’re waiting

for the rain to let up. And outside the window,

 

the lights blurring; smeared petals

in the gloaming streets. And beyond the streets,

the empty beds. Beyond the rooms, the fields.

Contributor
Jessie Lynn McMains

Jessie Lynn McMains (they/she) is a poet, writer, and spoken word performer. She is the author of  Left of the Dial (Scumbag Press, 2022). She was awarded the 2019 Hal Prize for Poetry, and her poem “[Santa Muerte, I ask you to remember…]” received an Editor’s Choice commendation in the 2023 Allen Ginsberg Poetry Awards. 

Posted in Poetry

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