I Am Only Part of the Story

Discovering Infidelity

—after Excursion into Philosophy by Edward Hopper

I’m not one to snoop and pry
into people’s lives, least of all
their intimate moments,
except when the window is flung open,

and afternoon sunlight barges into the room.
I will admit to a polite curiosity.

Even the hedge, which hides everything beyond,
appears to be crowned with glowing
thoughts. And when a man sits on the edge
of a bed, and looks so defeated,

I have to wonder
if the half-naked woman reclined behind

and facing away from him
is the cause. It’s possible
he’s read something in the open book
beside him, the pages half in his shadow

and half illuminated.
I can create a story for this room,

this man, this woman.
I can theorize the balance of blue sky
framed by the window, and blue
sheets that have known the weight of love.

I can’t help but speculate—
this man’s shoulders hunched,

his hands limp between his knees, his eyes lost
and looking downward—this is the defeated pose
of discovering infidelity.
His body speaks

of leaving everything behind,
and the fear what that could mean.

I Am Only Part of the Story

Sometimes I notice a woman down the street
     with an occasional limp and marks
I suspect are barely disguised bruises.

I’ve seen her drop her keys on the driveway,
     a metallic jangle that mixes with whistles,
calls, and coos of birdsong. She never looks

my way, and I pretend not to notice
     as she backs her car into the street
that makes us neighbors. I imagine illness

or abuse, but I cannot tell her story.
     Nor can I fill in the blanks for my friend
I took down to Charleston for an abortion.

I can tell you I don’t know who the father was,
     that he likely never knew. And I can tell you
it snowed that day while the medical staff

looked at me as though it were my child,
     that I’d forced her into this decision.
And I can tell you I’ve never wanted to be

a father, and my friend never became a mother.
     Then there’s that time a few years ago
my sister found a lump in her breast,

which, as her brother, I never felt
     comfortable discussing. I can’t tell you		
what she was thinking as she waited

for biopsy results, while she cooked dinner
     for her children. I could mention
it was the first time I considered how cozy

mortality gets, slipping in under the covers
     while I sleep, startling me awake
with terrible dreams I try to unremember.

When I tell you I am only a part
     of the story—the bipolar, bisexual male part—
you might guess at my distress, called crazy

and queer all my life, a belittled character.
     Still, I move the narrative down dirt roads
and highways, along avenues and alleys.

Someday, I will share with you my trip to New York
     on a Greyhound bus, how we crept past
an accident, bodies laid out across the road.

Photo of a Naked Man Found on the Internet

It can’t be art. There’s no title,
not even a name to identify the subject.

And he’s smiling. We all know that
models for fine art don’t smile.

The muscles of the face droop
to exhaustion so quickly.

He is standing in a bathroom. I suppose
it is his own, but without clarification,

we may never know. It looks like a man’s bathroom.
The shelving behind his left shoulder holds

only shaving cream, cologne,
toothpaste, and a travel kit.

This may be a hotel, but it looks like home.
And yet, I cannot say

this image is pornographic.
It is not.

If you have ever seen a naked man,
then you know what to expect.

Though I have to say, this guy is in pretty good shape.
I wish my body looked more like his.

But that is my problem, and not the point
of this picture. What that is, however,

I haven’t a clue. He’s wearing what appears to be
a silver wedding band, but absolutely

nothing else, and he has a shock
of gray hair in front over his forehead.

If I knew who he was, I might ask him out.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not that shallow

to think beauty begets fortitude and kindness
and love. But, you know what,

every once in a while we all need a good roll in the hay.
I don’t even care how common that may sound.

I don’t think he’s really married.
His surroundings make me believe

he is a single man, probably divorced,
probably a father who has always known he is gay.

But this head-to-toe shot with towels
draped off the sink and slung to the floor

begs the question, “Who took this picture?”
And, furthermore, who posted this image to the internet

where anyone can see him?
All of his shame and glory,

all his privacy and masculinity somehow exquisite
like a modern nude hanging in the gallery of my home.

What is your name sir?
Are you still alive,

or have you fallen prey to the ravages
of an untimely death?

But when is death timely?

I hope he is pleased with this depiction, this fragment of time
in which he smiled for just a moment.

This is a stolen body, unadorned, and offered as a gift
to any god who watches, so carefully, over these things.