False Memory For if I One Day Regret Not Having Children
In 2023, when my son was two,
I taught him in the summer dusk
to catch fireflies with an old
mayonnaise jar, the same way
I’d been taught by my uncles
as a boy: To stand so still
that those blind spark plugs
might mistake you for a shrub
and land on your upturned palm;
to close your fingers as a flower
closes its petals to the moon.
Stubborn boy. He giggled, naked
as he often was, and cast aside
my lesson, like all the lessons
I myself had cast aside to later learn,
and stomped around the backyard
—my barefoot king—claiming
his birthright amidst the late July grass.
Photos of that steam-damp night
are all slightly out of focus:
Little blurs of love and light.
Palimpsest
You once called me faggot
and I carried it on my face
like Lenten ash, afraid
to touch the word
and make it real
with my thumbprint
as if it was some dooming pact.
Soon, sweat smeared ash
and tears smudged smears
and faggot became forget—
wishful thinking
that I could forget away the gay,
force a word out of another.
Faggot, forget.
Forget that cruel lie
that time heals all wounds
when still the word burns,
erased from your skin
but caught in your throat.
Forget that you once loved a boy,
felt his lips on your own—
before the shove
and the dread
and faggot.
____________
Tim Stobierski writes about relationships. His work explores themes of love, lust, longing, and loss — presented through the lens of his own experiences as a queer man. His poetry has been published in a number of journals, including Chiron Review, Gay & Lesbian Review, Midwest Quarterly, Dust, and Connecticut River Review. His first book of poems, Dancehall, was published by Antrim House Books in July 2023.
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