By Dayna Patterson
It’s at least 200 years overdue,
what was needed in this place—
a good earthquake.
It slips from your mouth,
hits, finally, in the clothing store,
one seismic word—
bisexual.
We step outside.
Mountains spin.
The word, sin,
chokes in my throat,
acid bleak,
I swallow back.
We embrace.
Mountains steady. The air clear,
our hearts beat near.
A ten-year secret,
a whole decade to revise,
to re-see with new eyes.
You say you were afraid
to let me down again.
You were right then—
30 years of Sunday lessons learned,
rules for heaven, hell,
made me a person you couldn’t tell.
Around us now
lie whole mountains
made low.
Leveled,
I offer a nude
I don’t know.
❤️