On the Off Chance I Am Not Alone Forever • What Are The Boys Doing On Their Camping Trip?

On the Off Chance I Am Not Alone Forever

What Are The Boys Doing On Their Camping Trip?

Because I wasn’t invited so I don’t know, can’t know. I’m
flush with other questions: Am I a boy? Who is the arbiter of
boy-ness? Am I just mad at being left out? I imagine the boys
in the woods, clawing beer cans, pressing fire, no lady in
sight. I’m reminded of all I am not. Or they just don’t like
me. And out with the girls I am attracted to, I say the boys are
probably doing gay stuff. The girls laugh because I do gay stuff,
and I’m a little interloper here, the queer clown they’ve hired,
doing my best to look like a boy, but not being one. Because
I wasn’t invited. And even as I joke and complain, and let the
girls enjoy my difference, I’m jealous of the girls and the
boys—their certainty. Maybe the boys are
just telling their stories, puffing their chests like seals,
enjoying a woody solace. Maybe, after a boy-sized
amount of beer, they long to say I’m alone. Something was
ripped from my marrow long ago. My only escape is you.
Then they retreat to their sleeping bag caskets,
hear the low growl of crickets, see the open
pored sky, shudder at the multiple and distant noise.