Into Lesbian Enlightenment: 3 Poems

To know that something brews before your thirteenth year

is to be disconcerted, not fazed.

Amber stands by you, a golden halo surrounding her body while you two wait to be served.

She is not your friend,

Nor is this a friendship.

But in the preteen haze of lunch, boundaries dissolve -

And you can ask her about her dog.

Stung by sharp replies, you scan posters you have read before,

But it's fine.

She isn't your friend, nor could this be a friendship;

That much you know.

She'd need scraped knees and frizzy hair for that,

but she has hazelnut eyes:

A fully-formed girl.

"Friendships aren't intense", says your mother, stern,

but Charlotte pulls you to dizzying heights.

To use that name

As if she could be your English neighbor

Is an insult,

When she is clearly more

Cat

Or fairy.

At sixteen, chilling revelations

Are dismissed,

For this is a one-off;

How could feelings so numinous

Symbolize a trend inherent to your nature,

When this is about her

And her magic.

Ethereal and sickening, she glimmers

All angel quartz: your mother's right.

A cocoon of teenage surrealism

Shields you from truths,

But not from feelings,

Nor from the lump in your throat of

Bittersweet nights:

Her,

Painting your lips crimson.

Friends and green tea taste grey

After the implausible luster

Of sardonic wit

And a nose ring.

At twenty-one she came, mystic as elves;

People tell you who they are

If you listen,

But a noncommittal forest fire

Simply burns.

Only when the spell shatters

Can white-hot sobbing end;

Corridor smirks reek of artifice,

And her candy-blue hair

Lies flat.

Ecstasy and pain may be one,

To never part,

But two girls who share wounds

Just dance

Until dawn.