Fall 1992 • Vol. XIV No. 4 Poetry |

Translation

The words are these: queer, homo, maricón In certain neighborhoods; in others, fag Or faggot, fairy—queen when wearing drag— Not to mention pansy, pussy, baton— Twirler, girl-in-your-dreams. Creative names, But none describe us as we really are. Take me, for instance. Married, in my heart; A father, to my sister half my age (But by imagination only). One Forever unimaginable man, A Catholic son to parents who are sad, Or not, to see what cannot be undone: Those pines we planted in their yard: they grow Because they grow. My sister waters them. The water seems like crying, now and then. The water seems like life. It overflows.

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