After Kyla Jamieson
It’s making out with all your friends.
Rachel Weisz in The Mummy.
Brendan Fraser in The Mummy.
The older teen with the darkest, glossiest hair
who carried me around the pool that one summer.
It’s horse camp. Tents full of girls.
Tye-dye girl from The Parent Trap.
Most of the cast from Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
The girl disguised as a boy
to save her father’s honor
who falls in love with a boy,
who falls for her thinking she’s a boy.
Don’t tell me Mulan and Li-Shang are not gay as fuck.
My sexual orientation is Tracy Chapman’s voice.
Everything I knew about gender
unraveled the day I heard her
sing about addiction.
My sexual orientation is high-waisted
with a septum piercing.
It’s the friend who taught me
to masturbate, after we spent hours
lying on her floor, waiting for Mambo No. 5
to play on the radio. Hers was the sunniest
room in the house. Stacks of pogs, giga pets,
and culture from her grandparents in Germany.
I used to be jealous that her family had more
money than mine. A few years later,
I had a friend who played
tic-tac-toe with the poverty line.
This time, I was jealous
of how beautiful
she was.
My sexual orientation is
how many friends have I been in love with?
It’s can I still love my exes?
It’s Jessica Rabbit. Kovu from Lion King 2.
Esmeralda and Kida and Jasmine in that red
ensemble and Lola freaking Bunny.
Why do they make the cartoons hot?
Who asked for hot lions?
It’s both soft and hard like Legolas. Every minute
of Cruel Intentions. Xena and Gabrielle.
It’s genuinely thinking my best friend
is the best kisser.
Her lips softer than half the secrets we shared.
Her tongue gentler than honeydew
melon. Lightyears better
than the boys
we practiced on.
Once on a 10-hour drive from Saint Augustine
to Virginia, my mom and her boyfriend fought
like wolves. I could see blood from the backseat.
I played Tracy Chapman on loop, filling our ears
with lullabies shaped like tree rings,
each mile marker inching us closer
to home. Tracy stopped
the howling.
