Being queer is a practice.
I am a practicing queer.
Practice being queer through sea-kissing.
Practice being queer by eye-gauging women.
Read queer writers on queerness to practice being queer.
But practice slips through fingers like cupped-water.
Do I lose a little queer when I choose half-and-half over whole?
Or close the backyard gate?
Pick lint off of the couch?
Man, no one is queer here because no one is practicing.
A queer hand can’t be held.
Unless I
Keep up the practice.
Keep up the practice.
Because I can’t just run alongside the knowing.