Dear Hilton
I wish I had Hilton Als' email
or Twitter
or home address
or bio
or birth certificate
in my dresser drawer
near my multicolored socks from Gap
and Urban Outfitters; and boxer
briefs and trunks. That dresser I dragged
to the window across from my
door, parallel to the mirror, adjacent to the closet
with the Porta Bella ties and Conway dresses
and double-breasted wools and too big for him
step-dad button collar shirts.
in the room
with the carpet my West-Indian mother
with the still island accent and grandmother
heart burdens, wants to change;
heat almost always on,
ceiling fan rotating
close to
the bed D gave to her
when he moved and
found marriage that was made
for his adult person to the
woman who would give
him the one with the big
eyes and
promise.
I wish I had these identifiers
of him
so that way he would
know that I am reading his book
with my hands glued in it
unable to move them
unwilling Black gay man prose
puckered up and punctuated perfectly
pitted against pictures of fancy fashionistas
and pop princesses;
penises propped
up against rap demigods
dressed in drag and catholic school girl
grit
grin and Bears it
wincing at the wit of it
all. The nerve of him to
be it for me.
I judged your cover
by the book
by the brooks you
were born near
by the love
with a license
with a stipend
a debt owed
holed up
in taverns
holes up in these
lanterns
trying to find the lights
the life colored rainbow
the Whites call it "Nigger
jiggaboo daddy wahoo"
what kind of nigger are you?
amazing one right one write one
or two of them
brush/storm strokes
siphoned through arbitrary
gunsmoke and cackles and
these shackles of
cucumber sandwich Vreeland laughter.
only one
you
thank you, Als
me.
