No Greater Ganymede / Jovian Boon
God’s own gay concubine has returned,
ready for a different kind of marriage
to myself, first. No one else
can match my sexiness,
and that’s what they want me to constantly observe:
a danger sign,
as if I’m the one who went over the borders of human, or divine, or whatever kind of decency
and failed to learn
the most basic of human boundaries:
that dignity, once torn away
from someone else, is fucking difficult to return.
And that’s what it takes to be a real Purple Dragon,
to be cupbearer to the faults, and those that spurn
real imagination, and real empathy, and real prestidigitation
that invites new ways of knowing, and being, and turning
into something better. Something braver. Something made not out of hurt
but out of self-development. Out of maturation that has been earned,
quark by quark, star by star,
heart of gold by heart of gold in disaster by disaster:
the philosophers wanted a stone.
Do you know what I’m after?
Just a better world,
and place where I can really lean into joy, and hope,
and proud, beautiful queerness and laughter.
No one else wants to know me the way I am, anyway:
so be it.
I am no one’s martyr.
Just a sense of thrilling, living Life
and someone once so fucking abused
it is impossible to imagine that this, instead, is what has come into the light.