There are two distinct but related feelings that I want to share.
I'm at a queer open mic event. • I don't feel like I have anything to say tonight, I'm not really a poet after all, • so I just listen • and wish I were one of the beautiful queers filling the space with their resonant voices.
Yeah, I'm not really a poet, • but do I recall recently writing a brief passage. • Something that struck me one day, and I felt the need to jot it down before the words could be forgotten, • left unfinished • sort of as a memo to myself to flesh it out later.
Everyone takes a breather, and the mic goes quiet, • so I find that passage and re-read it from my phone:
"I can sense the knives hanging in the air
and I don't know whose hands are ready
to reach for them."
I can't remember when, where, or why I wrote that. • But I feel it, • viscerally, • right in my chest, even without knowing the context. That's the first feeling that I want to relate.
Toward the end of the night, I realize, silly me, that the notes on my phone are dated. • I check the timestamp of the passage, then leaf through months-old reminders in my calendar • until I find the date.
And here's the second feeling I wanted to share: the night I felt the need to write that down was of course • the night of the same queer open mic that I'm at, the last time I attended it. Fancy that.