The Role of Great Art
by Dion O’Reilly
There’s no other way to say it . . . John dressed up
in my mother’s blue nylon shift, her bubble
wig and square–toe pumps, found one of her precious
dressage whips, flicked it lightly
on my leg, which made me laugh
that he understood her so well.
Then, in Mother’s regalia, he fucked me hard
in her bed.
I liked the idea of it more than the orgasms
I said, years later, to a famous poet
who said, only a woman would say that,
which I’m sure is untrue.
Sorry to digress from the fucking
because I know the hottest moment
should wait for the end in this genre, but . . .
John wasn’t a man.
Yeah . . . he had a dick, but also,
scrapped inside him, the remnants of a womb,
some ovaries that never turned on.
Before kindergarten, his name was Joan
but after the neighbor tried to rape her
as she walked to school,
they examined her and found . . .
Sorry, I have to stop here because
I don’t know the details,
and he’s been dead for years
from both prostate and breast cancer,
but, somehow, they discovered
his . . . her . . . tiny penis there in the folds,
and twenty years later, we ended up in my parents’ bed,
both of us home from college, my Mother and Father
at a Pasadena horse show.
And just last week . . . I figured out from watching Pose
on Netflix . . . have you seen it?
Watch it for God’s sake . . . how else can we learn anything?
Anyway . . . I realized, my mom
was a Dom! Just like Elektra Abundance, but not as hot,
so I guess my poor little dad was a Sub,
but they couldn’t admit it,
which is why she liked to beat me while he watched
then sneak off to bad.
I said bad. I meant bed, but they were bad —
the torture and then the fucking.
It was a real blow job of a childhood, a lot
of those hiccuping kind of tears,
crouched in corners,
but bless my dear St. John who held inside him
a small girl
who held me and stroked me
after we sanctified my parents bedroom
and he . . . part man,
part woman, saw the half world
I lived in, and made of it
a little theater, a little drag.