by Heather M.F. Lyke
Censorship Begins at Home
15
I write an acrostic in the margin
of my English class journal:
red flag catches teacher’s eye.
A visit with the counselor turns
into dinner conversation
focused on what topics
are to stay tucked under tables.
17
I write a villanelle to process
a friend-turned-fancy session
with fingerprint imprints still on ass.
Notebook left out; you skim it quick:
yell at me that my rhyme is fine but
to “now go to your room.
Think about what you’ve done.”
20
I write a sonnet on solo sex—
celebration of masturbation monogamy—
score some bonus points for Eng 401.
While my prof praises through blush,
and Shakespeare giggles from the grave,
you reprimand with reminders: personal
pleasures belong behind bedroom doors.
22
I write a trio of sexy sestinas and submit
to a novel journal alleging an inclination
toward new voices: they accept all three.
You thrill in my recognition; yet, when
copies come and you flip to each set of six
you declare my stanzas smut—
shame me into putting my pen away.
43
I write this poem.
Turning
Breaking free from the city
I found myself curving with the
bend of the country road
where you once pulled over,
parked your truck, and sighed.
Here, let me show you.
you said, getting out.
Aglow in the headlights
you cocked your head—
raised an eyebrow.
By the time my feet hit
the dust of the shoulder,
you were already in the bed
of the truck, hand extended:
a beacon I was to follow.
With our backs against the cab,
you pointed just a little to the left:
having finished your freshman
astronomy class, you confidently
introduced me to the bright Cassiopeia.
In the shadow of your sureness,
I claimed to see what you saw,
leaned back into your chest
and stared up into darkness.
but I saw no beautiful wife and mother.
Instead, the soft shimmer of Milky Way
pulled my eyes toward Cygnus,
the swan, who welcomed me.
Whispered: Transform yourself.
Shivering, despite the hot and humid night,
I shifted. Take me home?
Tour Wizard
Between our sixth concert and our seventh—
sandwiched between the gilded north-side church
and a west-side city festival—our bus full of girls lands
in the weekend-full parking lot of a suburban mall.
Mid-century stoic brick—cast gold in midday sun—
to be our food court haven, retail oasis, and escape
from the monotony of singing the same set of songs on repeat.
You are assigned my shopping chaperone. My breath catching:
around me, it’s all jarring elbows and head-back giggles,
while the bus and I stop rolling. My parked skin prickles.
You, director’s niece, on break from college—
sandwiched between youth and responsibility—
lean toward your eight charges. High-five each of us.
Neurons reengage. Arm raises. Your small, rough palm
confidently presses into mine: smacking my skin so brightly
that it tingles between my fingers and my thighs.
Although, I don’t yet understand why.
As we follow you toward the yellow brick—the others chanting
KayBee and Suncost, and Deb (oh, my!)—I’m spelled by the glistening
Emerald city of your right ear, the lioness swagger of your walk,
The ruby hue of your tight fade: all of you a cyclone
that swirls
my thoughts
inward.
Where they stay.
Twenty years later, I’ll understand
the bricks of my path were never straight.
Heather M. F. Lyke is a queer writer living in southern Minnesota. By day, she works in the world of K-12 education. On evenings and weekends, she builds things out of nothing: sometimes with paint, occasionally with fabric, but most often with words. Her poems, “Turning” and “Tour Wizard” were originally published in In Parentheses: New Modernism, June 2020. Heather’s work has also appeared in Eclectica and MockingHeart Review, and is forthcoming in the anthology, From Pandemic to Protest. Learn more on her website.
Photo by Greg Raines