for the queer parents
I close my eyes and center down. Some immeasurable time later, I open them again. In the pew in front of me, a nice fade over a tight white T-shirt has appeared, beside a sexy updo topping a graceful tailored vest. The pews are originals, from before the Black church outgrew them and passed them on to us, the unchurched. Varnished oak and mid-century hardware. I gaze at a hinge, fastened by six screws and sixty years into the back of the seat in front of me, a join now rusted into permanence. After Rise of Meeting, these Friends turn around right away, as I knew they would. Their child used to play with mine. I remember a little blonde fairy sprite. They mention a hard few years. She’s shaved her head and is covered in tattoos. She stays in her car until after they’ve gone to bed so she doesn’t have to talk to them. One of the mothers says, “The silence resonated with the danger of hope.”
in the bright garden
well-watered wild petunias
survive summer’s scorch