I clear my throat, because that
is the thing one has to do to not
sound Gay. The vocal cords will vibrate,
come awash with a thin liquid film to evince
the Tough Male Sound Format for five seconds, so
I can answer yes, and no, and say
how are you, how have you been, what’s your name to
anyone who does not know, to anyone
who must not find out. When I talk to myself,
It is heard, though: The high pitch, the twang, the flirtations.
It sounds honest when I’m alone, singing in the bathroom when I ****.
When people are with me, I keep it
like a password in my wallet.
So it knows two things:
Hide and unleash, and honestly? It is getting tired
of knowing it has two voices for each.
I sound like a ***. There’s a jump in my As,
a wider opening of the mouth when I do my As,
the teeth showing with As, the identifying lilt,
the **** **** **** of a laugh, the longer tail
of end-syllables, the Mms and Ohhs not enough grit:
All embedded sound files that can get me killed,
that can make me see that I haven’t really stepped out
of the closet; I just opened it, and I can close it each time I like,
each time I find necessary,
like the wallet where I keep my password, like my mouth when
I say keep the change in the borrowed voice of
an Alpha Dog Anymale.
I was inside of my home one time, though.
Clasped in my religion of boundaries.

And then it started raining,
water droplets pelting rooves and shingles and wooden planks,
clapping
on the boardwalk where plants sit.
Closed my eyes. Funny.
the rain sounded like a crackling fire.