now that my depression is public information—
my mother has vowed to listen to my whims
but how do i convince her well-intentioned liberal ass that
i want her paisley printed sari and anal sex
that some nights a dream comes to me in which
my penis is stolen
or cut like an inaugural ribbon of rich red silk
or sometimes i plummet down an abyss of men
intertwined like a colony of snakes on an island
as their sweat seeps on each other

now that the private is political
am i a liberal because i don’t kink shame myself
or because i go around calling marx “karl daddy”
my mother has seen my hips swing
when britney says it’s britney bitch
but has she seen this side of me,
that what makes my poems nasty
full of secrets i can tell the world
but not her

how do gay men reconcile with their mothers
after sitting on the strange cock of a stranger
or are these sweet memories that one treasures
only in poems