Queer-e Vol. 1. no. 1 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Creative Writing Section 12. Jon Adams Copyright (c) 1995 by Author, all rights reserved. This text may be freely shared among individuals, but it may not be republished in any medium without express written consent from the authors and advance notification of the editors of Queer-e (queer-e-approval@vector.casti.com). ---------------------------------------------- COLDER SEASON Every night they fly by my window. It's too dark to see them, too quiet to miss their cries. Another season they'll come back, the sound of their sadness preceding them. I wonder if they flew over his head as he stood on top the silo and watched the sky fade into blindness, the wind stirring his curls. I wonder if he heard the man whistle below my window, looking for something lost. It's the first day of spring, but winter comes rushing back, white across my yard. When James fell to the foot of the silo, he wasn't the only one who died. GRIEF Perhaps you once loved a dying young man. He came to you on a summer's day. The bright yellow light split in patterns across the amber wood floor. It fell through the tawny hair he pushed gently from his cerulean eyes. The room you prepared for him was crisp and white; the brass bed frame polished; the pillows laid to comfort his head. Perhaps he left you before spring had truly ended, the static of bees and the scent of apple blossoms wafted through the screen door as he closed it softly behind him and stepped lightly off the porch. Perhaps you turned then, startled by the sound of his leaving, only to find the footsteps were your own and blush petals dusted where they tread. JEWELRY He comes to me unadorned. He's left behind his rings; the silver beaded necklace; the gold watch he borrowed from a man he doesn't know. It's begun to leave marks on his wrist-- subtly tanned lines from wear in the sun. He's freshly bathed, smelling of cedar. He's shaved his armpits. He looks at me, expecting a kiss and a compliment. He's simple. He eats a nectarine and licks the juices from his fingers. I can't remember the last time we spoke. My name is Derek. Some people tell me this man looks like my twin but I don't have a twin that I know of, and I am interested in why they think so. He doesn't know, Allen that is. No one has told him what they tell me. I used to swim at the outdoor pool afternoons. My eyebrows turned a lighter hue, two bronze, sun-tinted lines across my forehead. They are thin, refined, like Allen's. They don't grow together. I lost my goggles. I can't swim when I can't see the blue line at the bottom of the pool. I imagine that soon my eyebrows will darken and no one will know I swim and everyone will take me lightly, tell me I look like Allen compare me to a man who doesn't remember my name. LUNCH I have given up on underwear and the shirtless men who walk by. The one makes the summer stick between my legs, the other never spares a glance for me. I come to this coffeeshop everyday. I eat a green salad with carrot sticks and big brown croutons, without dressing. I am looking for something to sell or buy. I write my poems until the storms come. Rain sweeps off the awning, splashes on the sidewalk, splatters my legs. The day is best when my legs are cooled by the water prickling down them; best when the wind blows dust in my eyes. I think I will change my name. I will change my name to Peter. Peter, they will say, Peter we want you to read your poems for us; and they will put them in books. We want to buy your story, and they will put it in books. And I will have more books, so many more. I hate moving because of books, but I am not Peter yet. My sister mailed me a letter today. She sent along a picture of her baby. It has a pink bow taped to its head; she, I guess, for the pink. My sister has no name for the baby; she cannot decide upon a favorite. A gust of wind picks the picture off my table. It flits and sticks under a chair. I am scared to ask the man who sits there to give it back to me. I finish my salad. I chew my nails. HARVEST Mother I'm within a thousand miles of home. I called to tell you I'm leaving Texas again, and it looks different. It always looks different the day I leave. But the colors started to change long ago. One day the drapes appeared faded, the creases a lighter blue; a subtle difference. Then I noticed the clothes folded neatly by the door, the suitcase pulled to the front of the closet, his parting kisses shorter, with fewer words between. It wasn't until today that I missed him, when a woman called, Natalie, she said. I pictured her with red hair. I imagined her twirling it about her index finger, like stretched out bubble gum. "I know he's there," she said; "he sends me flowers all the time. I have these letters tied in twine." But I've been tripping over his poems scattered about the floor. I've been reading them drunk. They're about boxes and visitors and work, not about leaving, not about Natalie. "He's mine," she said, but she can't find him. It's August now and green grass waves in the wind. Tomorrow it will grow brittle and break and I will sit on the porch in Montana in the chair I've painted white seven times. I will close my eyes to the sun, to Texas. I will be singing, Mother, I will be singing. About the Author: Jon Adams lives and writes in Missoula MT. He just recently completed my Master's Degree in Literature and is working toward obtaining a M.F.A. in Creative Writing. His academic interests include gay and lesbian studies, feminist ethics and theory, contemporary poetry, Angela Carter and Tom Spanbauer. Jon has presented papers on both of these authors and presented work at the recent *InQueery* conference in Iowa City in November 1994. Jon Adams' poetry will appear in the forthcoming issue of "The Portable Wall," due out in October 1995.