Panspermia
Night of a Thousand Stevies
It’s like a vortex. Like Sedona
on the verge of a lunar eclipse
squeezed into a NYC night club.
Mind the statuesque drag queen
in a beribboned top hat, hollering
from the stage: Twirl, witches! Twirl!
And we do, our lips in sync with
the song and each other, as if casting
a spell—satellites momentarily
illuminated in strobe, like x-rays
revealing our common essence.
In platform boots we dance
as if barefoot on a bed of ferns.
Here, in this strange temple
of the Divine Feminine, where
nothing must be worshipped,
everything celebrated. Twirl!
Every May: this Renaissance
Faire meets Prom meets Solstice
meets All Hallows Eve—when
the goths glow in the dark and
the nerdy adolescents buried within
spill unselfconsciously, the way
we did in diaries, where everyone
is a secret poet.
Spoiler Alert
Understanding the mechanics of sunlight passing through water does not make the rainbow prettier, just less mysterious.
I swore I’d never eat bacon again—after that TikTok of a pig delivering hay to its debilitated brother trapped inside the barn.
Even my grandmother’s gravy hasn’t tasted quite the same since my father disclosed how her arthritis made it hard to stir.
I like architects faceless. Like god. It’s not denial, really, just a way of allowing darkness to foster wonder.
I close my eyes at the dentist. Rarely check my 401K balance. Never sat for the psychic reading a friend gifted me for a birthday.
I want to be shocked when love stumbles onto my path. Or shocked when it doesn’t. I don’t want an explanation for how it works.
Or a reason why when it doesn’t.
We’re Living on a Lesbian Planet
And this is old news, according to scientists:
4.5 billion years ago when our Solar System was young and foolish, something went BOOM! Protoplanet Theia merged with Mother Earth
in a grand Sapphic collision, their mantles and cores fusing together, the ecstatic debris collecting to form a love child, our Moon.
Yes, right under our feet: two brides braided for eons, locked by something stronger than mere love, even more undeniable than physics.
We stand heavy on their shoulders, forgetting their anniversary every year. But they keep spinning for us. Even as their child tugs at their sleeves.
The Readers of Your Imaginary Autobiography
Approach each day with a picture of them in your head:
Lounging in a corner somewhere bland—your book a cave whispering in their ear. Spelunk me! Beware the dragons!
Offer your scandalous affairs as if they are manifestos for how to make a bride blush or the wolves howl louder.
Whether set in a presidential suite or a muddy stable, portray it as a temple—every oh a prayer answered.
Remember you are the superintendent, each anecdote an apartment in the building you were meant to erect.
Admit you left your curtains wide open. Letting neighbors spy as you did yoga naked. Rejecting the poison of secrecy.
Don’t apologize for addictions or obsessions. Slant them as exquisite passions, unruly kids bent on a revolution.
Describe that zany encounter with a chimpanzee at the zoo, celebrating her integrity, exposing human chauvinism.
Show how you’ve jockeyed disappointments, smashing the need to win as you might a mirror that mocks you.
Make it an immodest portrait of integrity. A love letter to Life. Invite them to swirl in the possibility of your omissions.
Michael Montlack has published two full-length poetry collections and edited the Lambda Finalist essay anthology My Diva: 65 Gay Men on the Women Who Inspire Them (University of Wisconsin Press). His work has appeared in Poetry Daily, Prairie Schooner, North American Review, Phoebe, Poet Lore, December, Epoch and other magazines. In 2022, one of his poems won the Saints & Sinners Poetry Contest for LGBTQ+ poets. He lives in NYC and teaches poetry workshops at CUNY City College.