I bury my face

in my husband’s arms 

and cry like the faggot

they want me to be,

feel the buzz / hum / glow

of our rectangles

buoy us up and away,

lifting our little apartment,

suspending us in the summer dark.

An American aquarium

heavy with the weight of water 

that never filters pure.

This man, this love,

this home—

how precious.

How lucky, how grateful,

how sad

to feel safe only here.

All the shining scales,

the bioluminescence,

the dancing drift 

of jellyfish gowns

surrounded by the endless

crowns of shark teeth

smiling like jewelry,

swimming and singing,

howling in the water,

in the light, the vast dazzling

all boxed and huddled in

cubes of glass.

We rectangle ourselves

into rainbow screens

swelling hot in our hands,

whipping high above

the ground we’ll never walk. 

Even in our childhoods 

the boxes tried to warn us.

Keep your voice. 

Keep your poor 

unfortunate hope. 

Maybe one day, I wonder,

I weep—

Maybe one day

instead of an aquarium

a sea.