Glass Poetry Press

Volume One Issue One

Rane Arroyo

Brokeback Mountain

It's the story of my life: minus
                                          the big budget close-ups, plus a film
director unsure of my fate, minus
                                          a season among sheep, plus mountains
looking like saddles for my true
                                          love to ride, minus extras with tire irons,
minus awards, but the yes of two
                                          men becoming one, the sí of kissing far
from angels (how Blakean), plus
                                          Mormon underwear stripteases, Sundays
wearing vodka haloes, plus
                                          nights spent on the floor and somehow
not stepped upon by God, plus
                                          exorcisms and cold rivers, whispers in
Spanish from our missions, plus
                                          secret sleepwalking into each other's
doubts, free to quote Wilde, plus
                                          a plan to escape America, but
it's the exact story of my life with
                                          my cowboy, minus the sense of an impending
Patmos, that franchise of whispers and
                                          wild kisses, minus the script
(we were our best scriptures), we the scarred
                                          ghosts wearing landscape's honesty, photogenic
Adam's Apples, designer sorrow, minus
                                          talk show rodeos, paparazzi round-ups,
politically-correct high fives, minus
                                          the nightmares of winged horses with
hooves striking rocks to start fires, plus
                                          slow motion nights on Speed, education
and library cards, the Spanish of my skin, plus
                                          a belief in doom, nights bedding the moon,
two men without spin doctors, plus
                                          an unedited nakedness, joy rides in beds
offering amnesty for the crime of being,
                                          plus our Tijuana plans for a destiny makeover,
our nights as free verse Rimbauds
                                          in cowboy boots, plus vaqueros keeping
quiet about the specifics that become
                                          the story of my life, plus Judgment Day
drinking games: showing God just
                                          Brokeback Mountain to explain myself,
minus the editing, each moment as
                                          Love's monument and God's cameo, in my
image, in my imagination, in my
                                          nation while I and my cowboy are silent
having to learned to speak wind,
                                          wind from nowhere, wind with news of home,
of our entangled shadows seeking
                                          us with the plus and the minus of having
form, and we ride away from the cosmic
                                          to the specifics of long nights without stars
with clenched fists, us undressed and
                                          wondering what it feels like to become fiction.