The Great Mirror of Same-Sex Love - Poetry - 40. ...at the Jewel Box...

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Finding the Action

This Elegy provides a rare emotional snapshot

of same-sex love from the straight side.

At Schneithorst’s you

tried to pick up

the car hop, a short

blond-haired girl

with buck teeth.

She ignored your comments

and hooked the tray

with our fries and shakes

to the window.

“Look at that—”

You rose up and

pointed at a girl

in a miniskirt

climbing out of the back

seat of a Mustang.

We could see the red

polka dots

on her panties

and the backs of her

long golden legs.

I put my hand

on your shoulder

and pulled you back.

“I want to get

laid real bad,”

you said.

How could I have prevented you

from saying what you felt,

or stopped us from growing apart?

Winding through

the narrow lanes

and curvy roads

past long rows

of neatly trimmed

hedges, stone

statues, timed

sprinklers flinging

hard drops

of water toward

the sloping edges

of lawn, we drove

to the Holmes’ house,

but Nan’s windows

were dark. “No action

here,” I said.

How could I have prevented you

from saying what you felt,

or stopped us from growing apart?

At the Jewel Box

in Forest Park

we sat in the car

with the doors open

and finished the last

of a bottle of Sloe Gin,

stolen from your

father’s liquor cabinet.

“Have you ever had

a really good

blow job?”

I was almost afraid

to look at you, afraid

to stare into the shining

wedge of your face.

“I can give you

a blow job,” you said,

“that will send you through

the roof of the car.”

How could I have prevented you

from saying what you felt,

or stopped us from growing apart?

I thought of the exotic

flowers behind the glass

walls, releasing

their perfumes to the dark,

of how the fragrant scents

grow so potent

they make a new

kind of air,

thick with sweetness;

of how jewels form

on the palms of the fibrous

green leaves

that sparkle

only a moment

before they burst.

How could I have prevented you

from saying what you felt,

or stopped us from growing apart?

Under the thick canopy

of the sycamores, their

trunks lit

by a milky flame,

I looked at your stained

lips, your palms

opening and closing.

Then I shoved the clutch

Into gear and patched out

on the tarry road,

and sticking my head out

the window, laughed

into the warm buggy

wind rushing into

my eyes and mouth.

How could I have prevented you

from saying what you felt,

and stopped us from growing apart.

Jeff Friedman,[i]

1997