2 Poems by Grant Chemidlin

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Amy

My whole life I’ve had a gay aunt 

& never knew it. 

So obvious—went to Smith, no kids, 

joked to us: “I forgot to get married!” 

There was the lore of boyfriend Doug 

from so long ago yet always brought up. 

When I came out, 

she called.

Her voice was full 

of wingless doves

as she said, I sort of 

had a feeling, at least, it’s what I hoped.

Even in our liberal, lefty family 

we spent my whole life staring at each other 

through a two-way mirror. 

I could only see myself.

She could see me, but say nothing,

only watch.

Such a thin pane 

between us.

Such thin pain, though clear now,

still keeps us.

I should call, I say.

Why don’t I call?

To be gay, is to wait,

to go airless,

to sit atop the moon

beside the ladder back down, back home,

to think: 

There’s still so much I’d like to say

tomorrow.

Gathering

I write so many poems

instead of letters.

Why won’t my parents 

live forever.

One day, I will have finally 

gathered every beautiful thought 

I have of them,

and every thorn.

Blame will not have flown

away, but become 

a heavy stone. 

This arm’s length is three 

thousand miles long

but it is still a road, 

still travelable. Still,

that home on the hill,

its trail 

of winter smoke—

a call,

a signal. 

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Grant Chemidlin is the author of What We Lost in the Swamp (Central Avenue Publishing, 2023), a finalist for the Philip Levine Prize for Poetry. Recent work can be found in Palette Poetry, Quarterly West, and Tupelo Quarterly, among others. He lives in Los Angeles with his husband and cat. 

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3 June 2024