Antinous for Everybody

I worship a dead gay teenager and you can too

For Rhiannon: A prose poem

Knowing that she had not murdered her son, knowing perhaps that she

could have, Rhiannon preferred to carry her burden rather than argue

whose it was.  Seven years she sat by the mounting block and lied

about herself, telling the story they wanted to hear, the ballad of

the bad mother.  They never saw her rage or her tears; her fists were

clenched beneath her knees.  Did she recognize the child another

woman had fed for seven years?  All we know is that she named him

anxiety.

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