Cut flowers

Pardon me,
if I should fall
to you
for you
with you?
As an autumn oak leaf
lulled low by the gravity in your eyes
to cashmere-touch your familiar skin.

(Have I been here before?)
(Have you?)

Struck shy
we glance toward and away
as though afraid
we will catch each other looking.
Of course we are looking.
It’s not a fucking locker room.

Or is it?

Squinting from the shock
of bright Pixar lamp lights,
dazzling and distracting
as I cut all the budding flowers
from my lips before
they are able to bloom into-

Queer Hades (For Sarah Jane)

She gives me a wan smile
As I wander into the kitchen
Exchanging pleasantries,
ant thoughts,
Until:
“I think Scar is gay,” she says
Because Lion King is the gas station all millennial conversations eventually stop by
(According to Google, 2014).
“Yeah, I could see that” I say.

Flouncing Disney villains, everywhere:
Oily Jafar, taunting Aladdin
Radcliffe in self-absorbed finery
Ursula, painted from a drag-queen’s stencil
Fabulous, flippant Hades.

At least those damned to hell
Shall rule?
But try as they might
They are always at least two lines away
From acknowledgement.