In this convention-defying poem, Stephen Scott Whitaker reminds us that gender identity, sexual orientation, and clothing choice are not necessarily related.
—
An Old Man in a Blouse, At Market
Age has graced him seventy, blooms up in his lace
and ruffle blouse; when he walks he strides
in front of his wife, whose country feet cannot keep step
with the man who outwifes her, silver necklace
and matching rings, shiny bracelets, and pretty things.
And his beard? Combed and shampooed, his eyes glinting
with knowledge of one who has gone through the rabbit hole
and returned back again. At the local mart he thumbs through
the clearance rack, eyes trained to the size and ruffle
of the blouse and dresses, like a seasoned quartermaster
gleaning the messes of a hasty supply depot. If he cares
for what people will say he shows it not in his smile,
or in the way he and his wife whisper and touch under the shadows
of the rack and screw. And us? What do our pairing tongues
say about us? About what we think of women, and men,
or the choices a couple makes of nature’s middle heart?
***
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