He sits in a room at the end of a white hall
his Mom has made macaroni and cheese for dinner,
and it is still sticky and teasing in the air.
His little Sisters bounce a soccer ball on their knees outside,
and he knows he should be helping them with their homework
except there's plenty of time and he just wants to sit.
He leans back and his eyes are closing as if resting from the tiring pace of practice
and classes and shining smile MVP of the year 24/7…
except really he's thinking about a boy with dark eyes and a reluctant smile.
They hold hands, sometimes.
In movie theatres, the planetarium, assemblies at school.
Places where people lose sight of their hands, and they can join in secret.
He sits and looks like he's trying to avoid history essays and take home tests
but behind his eyes are a pair of sharp thin shoulders
and a mop of curly black hair that can never be tamed.
They came out to his mom on mothers day and she laughed
and said she knew and would Josh be spending the night,
there would be garlic shrimp and green beans from her garden and he said yes.
They came out to his mom.
And now it was his turn, and it had already been six weeks since mother's day
and even though he didn't say anything, Josh felt the weight of his eyes
When? When?
They seemed to say
When are you going to tell them? I told mine, when are you telling yours?
The thup thup thup of sprinklers spewing out clear water
over sparkling lawns matches the beating of his heart,
so suburbia and American newly minted quarters.
Except that darkness is seductive and alluring,
and he knows if he gives in and takes that pale hand
there may never be a path back here.
Back to the red white and blueberry cakes his Mom makes
Back to walking his Sisters down to the park
And giving their swings pushes until they complain of dizziness.
There may not be a way back to model boat construction with Dad in the basement
Or tossing the Frisbee for his Grandparents' aged dog,
While Dad and Pop-pop talk politics and war and gun control and those damn commies.
There may not be a way back to this.
So he sits in a room at the end of a white hall
and does not go out to gather his little sisters
or help his mom with the dishes.
He sits in a room at the end of a white hall,
spinning a pen between his fingers, eyes closed as if resting.
But he's not.