7.12 / Queer Three


The boy who will later be a polo player
wants me baffled and vertical, utterly

in the hallway, monkey-sudden
on a jungle gym. This is deviation:

I had no designs on altitude, knees
flush to the acrylic; all that yellow

was more light than I can speak against.
He talks dirty in diminutives, bears up

under hot water. In a bar on Valentine’s
he’ll write I FUCKED MR ____ on my

shirt. I’ll say This shirt is my evidence.
He’ll say The evidence is wearing it.

Chris Emslie is assistant editor at ILK. He lives in Scotland where they hang antlered skulls in the trees. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Specter, Red Lightbulbs and Lambda Literary Review, among others. He is exporting himself because his heart is a suitcase.
7.12 / Queer Three