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No Sir
Andrea Briggs
No sir I’m not like you men who write poems
about your gay childhoods
Making out in the backyard with Roger Danny Luke and Bobby
(all of ten twelve fourteen count off by twos)
Brute exploration of sexuality half denied and found out later the
hard way
through electric shocks to the system
when hands slid up hairy thighs
No sir I never had those
one night stands playing soldiers with water guns
Whipping plastic pistols and penises against pale palms
with your shoes stacked against the wall like
empty cicada shells clinging to trees in the summer stickiness
on your stomach
No sir I missed my after school rendezvous with James Dean
(though you made do with Jimmy
who snuck you in through his porch back door)
Getting pinned against the floor
with touches underneath his track sweater
Drinking flat diet Coke as an acid chaser
to neutralize the base running down the back of your deep throat
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