Phragmites

Phragmites

By Kyle Carrero Lopez

 

I’ve crashed a party with an infinity pool and several nude men:

a Fire Island home at the back of a walkway long enough to

outlast a pop song’s bridge and some chorus, flanked by

phragmites on either side, tall and same-faced, so all

but reed bulk hides out from the exterior. Myself

included, close to everyone here has a body of

one approximate build. What would it say if I

stay? Comfort’s not so comfy here, but I stay

and try to have a good time: periodic beach

guest, mainly through favors from men

whose wealth eclipses mine and most

of humankind. I know firsthand why

queers come to this place, obliterate

coherence, take, go, take, till

we’ve consumed enough

to leave.

Someone riding the stiffest

substance cocktail he can muster

GROANS he’s got to pee and can’t,

his functions stalled in the twist and now.

What he can still swing is a smile. Excess

soaks the sundecks and each redwood inch

of the mini villa with a sweet-hot stickiness.

There’s much more to take in, with nowhere to go.

 

 

About this Poem

 

“Cherry Grove and the Fire Island Pines—historic, adjoining gay communities on Fire Island—are beautiful, easy to reach from New York City, a blast if you’re with trusted friends, and a hotbed of race and class conflict. The ferries stop operating overnight, so you’re stuck once the last one leaves. One time, while discussing rental price-gouging in the Pines and suggesting that the safety Fire Island offers queer people should be accessible to all income levels, a gay man told me, ‘It’s Long Island, not insulin.’ I’m interested in what we willingly permit for the sake of our own enjoyment.” —Kyle Carrero Lopez

 

About the Poet

 

Kyle Carrero Lopez is the author of MUSCLE MEMORY ([PANK] Books, 2022), winner of the 2020 [PANK] Books Contest. He co-founded LEGACY, a Brooklyn-based production collective by and for Black queer artists. Lopez is a 2022 Tin House Scholar.