Love Song For A Queer Nation

Edward Mycue

  Memories are pressing up to thickening light floating when the moon sees our worlds end. They bring back unfinished symphonies and at Lands End a sea change under risen consciousness. Get washed I beseech/ tell my blind handsome city. Today I write my autograph on your red blood cells. Your skies are plum-colored, your boats oar-less, bobbing in the marmalade waves. 

  Your bayside harbor has a stone in its mouth.  Winds tear, disarrange clouds; rain sings at noon in a pacific grove, a rainbow seeming both truth and art.  Wingless buzzing rises in grey fusion. Spring winds sing a holocaust song, red love hymns for a queer nation, yellow roses for so many dying becoming blue as slowly the wingless rises, oyster-hued—old linoleum (littered, torn).

  At night your strange heart is music learned in love, moon milk of silence.  America, San Francisco, where are your rites? At your feet a deep-pile garnet rug are our children: they’re broken bisque porcelain.  I write my autograph on your red blood cells. Once calf-white, your promise is memory tongued eggshell-thin, a doomed diadem; our need  desperate geography and a healing love song for a queer nation.

                         Get washed you blind handsome city. Your skies plum-colored, your boats
carless bob in the marmalade waves. That harbor with a stone in its mouth.
Winds tear, disarrange clouds; rain sings at noon in a pacific grove, its
rainbow seeming both truth and art; a wingless buzzing rises in grey fusion.

Spring winds sing a holocaust song, red (rue, redwood, red root, rust, red rage)
red like hope-ruby of working-class love songs for a queer nation; yellow
roses for so many dying becoming blue as slowly the wingless rises, oyster-
hued like old linoleum (littered, torn). At night, your strange heart is music
learned in love the moonmilk of silence. San Francisco, where are your rites?

At your feet like deep-pile garnet rug are your children: broken bisque porcelain.

I write my autograph on your red blood cells. Once calf-white, your promise is memory-tongued, eggshell-thin, a doomed diadem; and our love for healing is desperate geography.  





Edward MyCue was born in Niagara Falls, New York, raised in Texas. Was a Teaching Fellow at North Texas State; Lowell Fellow at Boston University; WGBH-TV Boston intern; Macdowell Colony Fellow; a Peace Corps teacher in Ghana. Books are: Damage Within the Community, Chronicle Root Route Range, Root Route & Range Song Return, Paper Castle. Recently Nightboats, Mindwalking, I am a Fact Not a FictionSong of San Francisco. mycueed@yahoo.com

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