In search of queer utopia.
On their bikes the Jersey City boys leer
At the mass of slick bodies blooming
From the gold-colored sand.
But I don’t mind the way their hawk eyes
Linger on the sticky hair beneath my arms
And on the sweet shortness of your dress.
I smell Bacardi slipping from pink plastic cups,
And strawberry lipgloss stuck to the end of
A brown paper spliff, glittering.
On a bench three topless dancers dance
To a cellphone playing Cardi B, while the femmes
Sipping daiquiris in the tin cantina cheer.
Laid out on our blankets we are as numerous
As sea shells, incendiary with our red-painted
Toenails and bare asses lazing.
We are an oiled up, kiss-drunk riot,
Smacking hungry lips and throwing our love
Into the light—how it audibly buzzes
With a force that threatens to quake
The glass towers of Manhattan,
Now faint as memory beyond the beachgrass.
This is the Eden most never dreamed of,
Not the Jersey boys, not the President or the police.
But we were Paradise before they damned it.
I passed through a tunnel to get here,
I saw the Atlantic Ocean open its jaws
Wide to give us this garden.
The gender fucked and gender free,
The pansies and queers and libertines.
From sunrise to sunset,
In this world but not of it.