SG Huerta

Aging Queerly

Isn’t it weird that we’re old?
Not really, just twice the age
as when we met, awkward teens

with long dark hair. I will remove
your name from the final draft
of this poem but, forgive me, I need it

now in order to drag the authenticity
out of me. I’m proud of the teenagers
we were. I can’t think of our first kiss

without crying. Yes, still. In my room
the week before school started in our
shitty small town. That night, my dad

let us order pizza and watch Miley Cyrus
movies on his laptop. Long after
he left for his night shift, I rolled over

to face you in my bed and told you
how pretty you are. The rest is between
us. That town chewed us up, spit us

back out across Texas and traumatized.
I love that I knew you. And still do.

I Know

You’re healthier than ever / Your eyesight is 20/20 & your back does not require a single steroid
shot / All those rosaries and oraciones paid off / You’re drinking unlimited coffee with unlimited
peppermint International Delight creamer / No one gets annoyed at the way you always leave
that loud ass fan on or use up all the Tabasco or clank your silverware against your plate while
you eat / You finish every poem and essay you start and your special pens never run out of ink /
You finish every home improvement project you start and everyone else in Heaven is like, Oh
shit can you fix up my home too? / You aren’t fucking up. / You aren’t fucking up. / You aren’t
fucking up. / You can love, Dad. / You are loved.