queer flamboyance and libidinal femininity

Queer Flamboyance and Libidinal Femininity

The grass smelled good, and there were flowers along the way

to use the language of another religion, my mother’s patron saint

a weird alloy, but after a while I didn’t even mind it—it was like a sword

to get to where I am on the whole subject o’ her, now you want to post

two women there. One--I guessed it was the one who had been--

would not be able to answer you honestly. I might say that I went

glittering with hundreds of decaying minnows. She was alive but I couldn't

see her in action. From a dank cement arena her hair had blazed at

clean dark. I couldn't even see to the gate, but I figure they went

as an amusement park—walking through the storm’s path of

“flood control.” Nobody was trying to drain the swamp anymore,

didn’t crash so much as collapse on itself, wetly over and over

to get away from the need for killing before I kill the wrong

tribute to all those who were subjected to slave and forced labor.