But really though, the convent
didn’t prepare me for this—
for the beautiful drag queens lip syncing on stage,
the stamps on my skin, on my oven burn,
the heat of a crowd warmed from the inside out
by LA water, cosmos, exotic drinks with rum
that spin the room like the music
that slides against the walls,
against posters on the walls
of men with bigger breasts, and lovelier faces, and joy
so palpable I’m proud of strangers
in the crowd and on the stage, all here
for the change in rhythm I give,
because why keep the status quo?
New shapes, copies of infinity,
hips and unfamiliar hands,
feathers and beads and air—
fresh in the parking lot,
the blood cooling in our veins,
and I begin to concern myself
with the driver, who’s had a couple,
and the insufficient material of my jacket.
Melcontents 