the politics of who gets forgotten

to the gay community:
how many women do i have to fuck till i get in?
i dream of children and corn stalks,
the moon and a dozen hoarse geese.
i have seen how many mistakes i can make,
and i have paid the cost.
i have told my whole heart to the sky: the firmament
in its many domes holds
the sum total of my ability, my honesty, my blood.
your mouth fastened to my future and i had always thought
that this was impossible, but
here you are,
dancing. the white ring left around my finger after
a summer of you: after years:
when all of me will full bloom.
still the garden does not open for me.
still eden finds me at fault.
the conscious ire of it: is this what it takes?
is this what will make you see me?
if i am obliged to confess to you all
of what you'll term my sins--including
propping up men, and other failing systems--
then so be it, since the men are not going anywhere,
and your favorite pasttime is overseeing
and overhearing all of my Hail Marys, full of grace.
this is the only grief circle i have been to
that does not cry.