By Samantha Pious
I wish I were a lesbian.
That snaky hiss, that liquid elle,
a bee (as in, let’s be as one)
twisting letters, agile sounds:
the name that dares to make of love
a ringing lips- and tongue-vibration
which makes me think of kyrielle,
medieval, escapades, translation.
I wish I were a lesbian.
Instead I’m only getting bi.
Can barely stomach pan or queer,
myself. Alas, don’t qualify
as woman-loving-only-women.
Can’t deny it — have a tooth
for toxic masculinity!
The tongue, though, specially reserves
a bud or two for them, for her.
I wish I were a lesbian!
My legs, though, they had other plans.
Toes still curl for pretty girls
and fingers also twitch for men
and genderbending folks. And damn,
the same old song is on again:
I wish I were a lesbian
or else (oh song, my little book,
go quick to her and speedily)
some cunning linguist undertook
to mint a koiné that might B
I. Were I a lesbian ————
Samantha Pious is the author of A Crown of Violet (Headmistress Press, 2015), a translated selection of the poetry of Renée Vivien. She still can’t say the word “bisexual.”