Photograph by Amy Hart
It’s almost a cliché: The gay man
recounting the first time he stole away
his mother’s dress or skirt or slip
—young tenderfoot—to drape across
his body in a bedroom not yet given
over to the musk of adolescence
and know in that heart-still moment
wagging his hips in the mirror’s glass
that he’s different, that his cheek
would one day flush for men.
I was never into dresses. Instead:
My moment hinged upon a bra,
sweat-yellowed in spots and sagging—
the elastic shot to shit—pilfered
from the bathroom floor and hidden
in the cellar, between cardboard boxes
of wax-melt Halloween masks
where, failing to maneuver its clasp
of eyes and hooks, I pressed
those padded cups against
the soft of my chest
once and again and again,
until I reeked of my mother’s hug.
Growing bored, I dropped the thing
there amidst the other costumes,
opting to rummage for Frankenstein’s
rubber face in the nearest dust-bit
box and slipping it—a little tight,
but basement-cool—over my own
seething skin.
Tim Stobierski writes about relationships, presented through the lens of his own experiences as a queer man. Recent poems are published or forthcoming in Poetry Ireland, Chestnut Review, West Trade Review, and elsewhere. His first book of poems, Dancehall, was published by Antrim House Books in July 2023. For more, follow him on Instagram (@timstobierski) or his website (timstobierski.com).