By W.J. Coughlin
In eighth grade you discovered the deadly force of the word fag.
Hurled across morning recess like a lightning bolt,
it was a genuine show stopper—
better than any atomic-powered death wielding Excalibur
your comic book imagination could invent.
Swings stopped swinging,
jump ropes fell to sticky pavement,
boys giggled, girls snickered
and the object of your derision
stood branded like an undernourished cross-eyed calf
forever rejected by the herd.
I heard you later found religion,
became a real firebrand, catapulting brimstone
at sodomites, women's libbers, the gun-control crowd—
your vision of flag-waving Christian purity
fortification against the onslaught of an increasingly secular age.
So imagine my surprise, finding you here in this dark cavern
on your knees,
cheeks flushing through fake fog and strobe light—
learning to do something other than persecute and pray
with your cupped hands, your wide open mouth.
William Coughlin lives and works in Chicago. He has been writing poetry for most of his life and is currently completing the MFA program in poetry at Columbia College Chicago.