Queer ancestors. If I send for you, will you grant me more than preposition? If I beg you, will you leave me more than shattered disposition? They paint me a world, they tell me exactly what is true, but what of you? Truth feels like daggers in my stomach, the persistent thought, the one I say I'll give a month but I know I need no moment longer. WHO am I?
Ancestors. I am far from the soil of Norway. Were you loved then? The queer ones? Do your bodies trace the mappings of every gay boy's soil? If I begin digging, will I unearth the prepositions you left for me?
Our story. Erased like floods with every casket. Like each beating heart found the affirmation, the exclamation, the declaration. And each blood afterwards starts again. Could I find you in my DNA? Is my preposition written in the stars, a cosmic trail that leads me to whatever queer answers you may have been brought to?
I am bound. I am undone. I have never been written before. And yet I beg you to tell me the ending.
Instead, I'll bow. Cross a grin and let my body love what it loves. I know you'll be at my back.