My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

 

Fourth grade, saying the lines,

A Robert Frost poem.

I rather like the word.

What does queer mean?

“It means odd.”

I’m rather odd.

“No, not like that.”

 

The word sticks with me later,

Such a beautiful little word—

Strange,

Not wrong,

Just strange.

Anytime I see it in an old book,

I smile.

 

“Queer.”

I hear it later,

Next to dyed hair,

Undercuts,

Swirling flags of color.

Flashing smiles.

Am I queer?

“No, It’s a slur.”

“We have other words”

“LGBT”

 

But I rather like the word.

It’s hard to explain who I am.

Even I don’t know yet.

Fragments of bodies and minds,

Smiling at boys and girls,

Being uncertain which one I am

If any at all.

 

I turn to the page.

It helps to trim the feelings down,

Muddle the page with

Dripping paint.

Bleeding swirling fuchsia feelings,

Blotting on the page,

Letting the feelings go.

 

Queer.

I rather like the word.

Strange,

Not wrong,

Just strange.