To the gay community:
how many women do I have to fuck till I get in?
Or really, how many
noncisgendered heteronormative men?
(If academic language is your gatekeeper's test,
tell your angel that I have studied.)
Closeness to you has been my version of heaven:
attained after great personal struggle,
growth through destruction. I have shrugged off
the inquests and insults
of so many people I thought I was loved by.
My karma is strained but smooth, perfect in its imperfections:
I have seen how many mistakes I can make,
and I have paid the cost.
I have told my whole heart to the sky
and its stellar dieties: the firmament in its many domes
holds the sum total of my ability, my honesty, my blood.
Still the garden does not open for me:
still Eden finds me at fault.
What would you have me do? Whose daughter
would you have me raise?
I am not asking for the seventh house
on the seventh hill; I would make my peace
with being allowed to visit your home, on your hill,
to bring you tea and to listen to your stories.
How many hearts must find me open?
How many times must I break?