A POEM by HANNI SALATA

T4T AT THE TOWN THEATRE

You have no idea what you're doing, and you know she can

tell. It is comforting that she doesn't seem to mind. She

laughs, warm and full-bodied and startling against the quiet

onscreen, grasps your hand, whispers the name you wish you

had been given, and you are struck with wanting.

You like the way your boy-name sounds on her tongue,

consonants wrapped in vowels and quiet like strength.

You like the way her girl-cock feels in your hand, firm

and throbbing and vulnerable, like having all the things

you never knew you were allowed to want. You like wanting.

You're a quick learner, always have been, as eager to please

as she is for pleasure. You try not to feel smug as you watch

her face. Her eyes never leave yours, polished-copper glow

half-lidded. She pulls you in for a breathy kiss, and you think,

this is the miracle that turns saints into transsexuals.

When she leaves, you'll tell yourself you don't miss her.

Everyone has to have a first, and you are lucky that yours

made such a clean break. Ten years later, the both of you

punch-drunk on her couch, she will tell you she wishes she

had stayed. You won't know how to explain that she did.

---

Hanni Salata (they/them) is a queer travel professional, home chef, and poet based at the intersection of Cat Dad and Punk Rock Grandma, which happens to be right down the street from Lake Michigan. They're a frequent flier on Bullshit Airlines, but you can also catch them on Twitter @graceandlaurels, where they mostly have gay thoughts about the City of Chicago.