Not Gay As In Happy–
Queer as in death to cops and politicians!
May they live their every waking moment
afraid of what the people will do to them.
Not queer like a rainbow slapped
onto a Wells Fargo debit card, gay as in
let’s hurl a Molotov cocktail thru the window
of the bank at nightfall and kiss while we watch
the glass shatter like a supernova. Not gay
as in pride flags, queer as in flagging,
as in leatherdykes and deviance, as in the way
my fist fits perfectly inside my lover,
the way their name in my notifications
makes my clit quiver, the way their mouth
makes me melt as sticky as ice cream during
a heat wave. Queer like I’m so fruity, I may as well
be a smoothie. I’m as flamboyant as a flamingo
and as buoyant as a bumblebee blowing
bubbles behind a bounce house. Gay like
the ex-girlfriend of my ex-girlfriend is my
ex-girlfriend and we’re all going dancing
in matching pleather pants. This pride month,
I’m partnering with the freaks and the fairies
to strike fear into the hearts of fascists. Let’s
untether our shame and toss it in the dumpster,
let’s shout this prayer so loud our lungs
collapse: Dear God, dear Bjork, dear
Everything, may the fruits inherit the earth.
May the future we deserve spring into being
with a swish of our limp wrists.
The Love Museum Is Offering Free Admission
plus a 20% discount at the gift shop for anyone
on the precipice of heartbreak. I’ve been
meaning to go for over a year, but I was too busy
holding hands and staring into my lover’s
butthole and other things that people do
when they’re in love. Today, I lint roll
the cat hair off my flannel and take endless
selfies at the museum’s marble steps, until
I get one where the light hits my teeth
just right and each nostril hair is in
its proper place. The main exhibit demonstrates
the history of kissing using state-of-the-art
androids with anatomically correct tongues
that undulate like mating slugs. I glide
through hallways lined with artifacts—the purple
plastic vibrator my first love gave me
for Christmas, the L Word DVD box set
I watched religiously in secret—and peruse
the archives of late-night texts from lovers
whose birthmarks I’ve willed myself to forget.
In the gift shop, I buy a souvenir: an exact replica
of the moon from the day we met, as round and shiny
as a fish egg. While I wait for the bus, I release
the moon from its box and watch it float away,
blooming like a flour tortilla in the cast iron sky.
Ally Ang is a gaysian poet & editor based in Seattle. Their work has appeared in The Rumpus, Muzzle Magazine, Poets.org, and elsewhere. Ally is a 2023 National Endowment for the Arts fellow and MacDowell fellow. Their debut poetry collection, Let the Moon Wobble, is forthcoming from Alice James Books in 2025. Find them at allysonang.com or on Twitter and Instagram @TheOceanIsGay.