The Little Merman
My legs are pendulously riverrine,
pumping hard against the chains that keep coming back to life
as I try to swim away.
The brine
of your cum
is salty in my mouth. Not tepid, or mal-tasting.
Just gay.
You too, Dreamtiger,
as you try to free me from
a prison of my own making;
this shipwreck agony of a bleaching, overpelagic faux-reclaiming
fight.
I sucked hard on your penis and drank
because I know the Fountain of Youth never quite
comes twice
no matter what you keep saying, Merlionsman.
Fairy tales are not for self-hating, hypercloseted men.
When you let my fingers find purchase within your ass’s cool sounds
I wanted to cry, and weep, and demand
that you write some other poem.
That you stop showing me what I keep calling my token
sense of self against my will. I know I don’t know it.
I know I will never have my fill
of your mouth, and your face, and your armpits.
I will never get that first last night, entwined in your soft brown Kristang bliss.
I don’t read poems. I don’t watch Disney movies, even if they aren’t queer.
And so I miss the signs of better times, drawing near;
I miss you whispering to me
“Fellow gay fish-cat,
don’t worry.
I am always here.”