Ray, of the Light

I was crossing Columbus

when I saw him, 

his warped face

gawking at itself

in a storefront window

holding his mother’s hand

as she jerked him

to move on.

Resisting her tug

she stepped up her effort

with a loud “Come on, Ray!”, 

and an even louder 

“We’ve got to keep going!”

only to be followed 

by an equally exasperated:

“I don’t wannoo!”.

At that moment I was his.

And in his corner.

In that same moment 

the glare of a car’s

side mirror

bounced off a ladies

silver necklace

flashing in my face

and in the blink of an eye

I was changed.

Suddenly 

I knew what it was

to be a Picasso in a ghetto,

as if I'd been painted as

The Scream instead of Munch;

a still-life turned cubist

with my life bleeding

through transparent 

paint.

Turning away stunned 

I caught my reflection

in the window 

of the boutique.

I was a bird

that had hit 

a glass pane 

in mid-flight.

I clenched my throat

stifling the desire 

to cry out.

How cruel and vivid

and various was creation

and how perilous it was

being different, deformed, 

unusual, even as I began 

to imagine how freeing… 

to be let off intelligence's hook,

to live a life of endless

low expectations

with such unspoken

understanding.

Yet to know 

such unabashed joy,

to not care if 

my clothes matched

or be expected to excel 

at the art of anything. 

To stare boldfaced at others

and bare witness 

to the blemishes

on a stranger’s 

pockmarked face 

out loud. 

To hug a random person

without the slightest hesitation.

To traffic in atrociousness.

To dance off the beat 

with uncontrollable effeminacy.

To never second guess

my motives or question 

the grander scheme.

To be shameless 

and show offy

in the middle of the street.

To mimic the mannequins, 

sticking my tongue out

at the shopkeeper’s frown,

and at last

to cry for what I want

the very moment 

I wanted it.

8/22/2021