Editor’s note: It’s a pleasure to be able to showcase some of the terrific writing that’s out there. This week’s poem is from Michael Robert Makin.
Michael is the son of Cuban immigrants, born in New York City in 1964. Michael came out at age twelve and was out in junior high school in suburban New Jersey in the late 1970’s where he was bullied, and as a result began to write. Michael left home at age fifteen and lived in New York, San Francisco, Seattle and Pasadena, CA. He now lives with his fiancee Robert John Makin in their home in Boardman, OH, a suburb of Youngstown with their four dogs.
It was big and vulgar,
and he cruised us around in it,
Sunday afternoons endless,
through the West Village.
My sister and him laughed at the queers.
I sat in the back seat,
minding my own business,
but always feeling alone.
I hated them for their cruelty.
One particularly hot afternoon,
he was feeling especially manly,
so he announced in a brutal declaration,
he would kill me if he knew I was one.
My last piece of childhood died then.
Later that night at ‘home’ as it was called,
he called me a maricon for the last time.
I snarled back at him in disgust,
“Yeah, I’m fucking fag… so kill me.”
I never saw him speechless before.
It was never the same after that,
but I did not care anymore,
as I was finally myself,
regardless of the price I would pay.
The monster sat in the garage waiting for them.
© 2012 – Michael Robert Makin