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He liked feminine things
as far back as I can remember:
high-heel shoes, scarves, purses,
dancing before mirrors.
School was a horror.
He preferred hopscotch to relay races,
jump rope to baseball.
I imagine a woman in search of her body,
a hijacked plane touched down
in a strange place,
or a photograph of someone else
in unfamiliar clothes.
He played out his life in a foreign film
with no subtitles, with no critics
to rave in reviews, no one
to laud his impersonation.
He was less reality than dream,
more imagination than possibility,
and he lived a life without a plot
and point of view,
like a poorly written story
filled with questions and no answers.
I think of a woman I did not know,
of a sister I wish I had.
(John-David died from complications caused by AIDS on June 3, 1987. He was 26 years old).
--
Copyright 2021 Glen Brown
First published in Willow Review.
😥
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Thank you, Barbara.
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