sestina for team dresch
[note: the dictionary definition of sestina is: "A verse form first used by the Provençal troubadours, consisting of six six-line stanzas and a three-line envoy. The end words of the first stanza are repeated in varied order as end words in the other stanzas and also recur in the envoy." i am obsessed with sestinas and i absolutely adore writing them. i find the structure oddly freeing. i cheated slightly on the envoy--it's supposed to end on one of the ending words, but i didn't want to sacrifice impact for the sake of a few arbitrary rules. anyway, here is one i wrote for the greatest queer punk band of all time.]
sestina for team dresch
by ocean capewell
so long ago, we only had scrawled letters
sent with re-used stamps. we only had tapes
of albums, copied and copied again, until
the guitars were distorted, but the words
stayed clear. the words were what
mattered. because we were fourteen and queer
when it was really fucking disgusting to be queer,
even if we were subtle. even if we only said it in letters
to girls halfway across the country, who knew what
it was like. girls who would listen to mix tapes
on the bus, covering up the stupidity with words
about kissing girls, unable to wait until
the day it would actually happen. i couldn’t wait until
i got the fuck out. where i could wear the word queer
like a good tattoo, not an embarrassing scar. not a word
to hide from. i knew it would happen; because of the letters
and the fuzzy voices i played hundreds of times. the tape
wore thin. i flipped it over. i honestly don’t know what
else could have saved me. what
could have told me to hang on until
the end, besides her handwriting, besides the tapes
that said, “she is everything”, that said, “queer
sex is great, it’s fun as shit.” i quoted it in letters.
“don’t kill yourself cuz people can’t deal with your brilliance.” words
on my shoe, so i could read it all day. until the words
became a part of me, something they couldn’t take. no matter what.
the night i left that tiny town i burned my letters.
i didn’t want a past. i watched the flames rise until
they were ashes. i was homeless for being queer;
i couldn’t take them anyway.but i took those tapes
and it wasn’t so bad. the voice on those tapes
said it was all emotional blackmail anyway. the words
said i could choose my own family. and i did. those queers,
i loved them so hard i didn’t know what
to do. we made each other home. we danced in the kitchen until
we collapsed. we screamed the things i’d only heard in letters.
what else could it be but magic: making those tapes
into a map, a letter that led us to each other. queers
screaming those words, until we didn’t need to anymore.
not titled yet
we are building forts out of dictionaries. shiny ones stolen
from chain bookstores; peeling-spine editions from library
booksales. dictionaries with the pages moldy. with the definitions
quaint. light, pocket-sized, wood-pulp editions. i used to have a dictionary
that i used as a weapon, checking the house for robbers.
it was so big i needed both hands to hold it, my fingers
stretched wide, clutching words close to my heart, ready.
i have donated it to the cause. our wall
is four inches higher. those words, not delineation
but armor.
when i looked up the word unlearn i forgot it would make a hole
in our fort, the size of the side of a book, that a bomb
could slip through. the walls wavered. the floods made the pages
crinkle. the locusts ate the definitions. when i looked up the word
inspiration your pictures tumbled out. i tucked them in. i couldn’t
look at your face, doomed and luminous. i didn’t need to look up
the other words, the worst words. i knew them already. i needed
to look up something good, needed to see the tiny illustrations. i lied:
i needed to see your face again, even though i know
what comes next. but i shut the dictionary, and shoved it into the hole.
i didn’t want to, but we were at war.
