Am I supposed to take something from that,
from that sweat you dripped
onto the upholstery of my car?
The breath, perfumed with beer, dancing
robust words across that silent space,
The space I had wrapped around me
all my childhood
like my own umbilical cord, though now
with no mother to be attached to?
It's true, I radiated myself through
time, like rainbows and daisies,
shining through rose-tinted glasses above
that which you would call labor, a man's work,
that hint of dirt and rippling muscle.
But that which you form as
"masculinity" eludes me -
eluded me in birth, and still yet
is somehow outside my reach, the
sphere of my silent spaces,
and you, with your sweat, and your tan,
and your work, you embody
something to me untouchable,
like a god, and the language you
spoke that mocked me all my
waking hours of childhood was in reality
my own voice,
mocking me for my insecurity, as I
tried my hardest to bathe in your masculinity
and stop disappointing
no one but myself.