between poetry and spoken word,
and then about how he wishes he could
write poetry and I try to convince him
that he can if he wants to. I’ll help him,
if he wants me to—?
Then he tells me he doesn’t study here.
He’s Simon’s brother, just visiting.
He says he loves visiting Simon
because: “Everyone here is so free.
Back in our town, people are restricted
by family expectations and childhood
reputations.”
“I wasn’t made for university,” says Jack.
“I’m a practical person. I make a good
living in construction. And I get to travel
with it sometimes. I’m always surrounded
by men and their banter and their anger
and their hurt, and sometimes I just want
to hug them, you know, invite them to open up.”
I do know, Jack. I really do.I’m following
his monologue but all I can think about
is how much I want to stop him midsentence
with a kiss.
But Jack continues:
“I’m not gay, but men, we can understand
each other and yet we never talk honestly.
We put it all on our girlfriends—
not that I have one. I’ve read about this
online; it’s work for them, emotional labor.”
I’m hearing this semicoherent account
