In a small restaurant
we drink martinis. My dad
orders for all of us—
is this the fifties? No,
my parents enjoy you.
Back then few families
would laugh with a gay son
and his partner in public.
Some see the past
as a dozen white roses,
blue vase, sunny sill.
My past crashed
into a wall,
no helmet.
As we dig into dinners,
you point us to the window—
a hummingbird flitters
by a feeder,
flies off. You,
a lake that wind gently ripples.
Small waves, early soft
crimson water lilies open.
originally appeared in modern words (2004)
Ice and Gaywings 