I remember when nobody would talk about being queer.  I grew up with gay friends I didn't know were gay.  But still, things were said - quietly - and we learned to fear getting tagged as Queer.

Whispers

The Whispers follow quickly
like the echoes of a gunshot
or the pendulum creak of a closet rod.
The last, slow drops of blood.

 

“Those two were always closer
than girls ought to be.”

 

“They say he was found
wearing his sister’s clothes.”

 

I remember those days.
When the words ‘dyke’ and ‘faggot’,
Floated over our heads like balloons.
Their strings nooses about our necks.

 

They want those days back again,
those schoolyard bullies, now grown.

 

Angry that they cannot fill 
their hollow souls with our pain.