Lesbian Poetry

Secret Again

This will never be given, mailed,
slipped into any envelope,
spoken too loud, not
really even whispered.

I try not to think about it.
You see, it's shameful.

I can't help myself or,
I don't know how to or,
maybe, I don't want to,
but it's here, again.

In full force, taking
a full third out
of every one of my
under-appreciated moments.

Yes, I want it to go away.
But it won't, of course.
It must have a purpose,
I keep thinking.

Why else would it show itself
in such deliberate fashion
just about, oh, every
2, 5, 6, 7 years?

It's trying to tell me
something, of course.
I'm almost sure.

There must be things
I still haven't raked through,
things that are still buried
so still and so deep, still.

I must not have gotten the roots out
then, just bought myself some time.
And now they're back again another season.

What new arsenal will I use,
so I don't do those
unspeakables,
unmentionables,
unimaginables.

And I can't stop myself
from thinking about the shame.
And how much I want it
and how much I want it to stop.

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