The love of my life moved from portland to new england
by Zuri McWhorter
He’s performing on stage.
I came to watch him
because I am a fan.
The spotlight does not
keep up with him;
he doesn’t move fast
but he does move often.
He has stories that I am not in
anymore. It’s healed this way.
Five feet of space between
me and his opinions,
his sweat. His bones
lacquered in sunset,
he steals our fantasy:
He would have loved to take me in the back
a space with curled posters and faded phrases
‘never stop’
‘2 pound pint’
‘hugs then drugs’
– in the alley again, like real dirty…
But I am in his New York with
my retching gut and shivering fingers
hoping to turn a foreign practice
into common knowledge
He has his himself, his loins,
his creations and wonders.
He is on the stage
and I am a fan.
