Masquerade
by James Penha
We were staying over in the living room
of our besties—she . . . and he whom I loved
obsessively to no physical avail but with
whom I remained colleague, editor, muse
philosopher, and madman poet partner—
anything to remain close. He held as well
as my heart the truth I steeled to share
with Mary my longtime girlfriend
as we finished off the cheese and sangria
sedative for the night on the living room
carpet. I have to tell you, I said, something
serious—You’re sick! she interrupted. No!
She’d felt my melancholia so often, she said,
she feared I was dying. And so she saw
a cloud lifting. But it was my mask needed
lifting before Mary. The phantom must
be faced tonight! I used to think, I said,
I could never love anyone until I found
him (sleeping now with his wife not me
in their bed) whom I loved more—veil
gone—than I could ever love Mary —I I I
cared for her even so! and therefore had
to be honest before we got carried away
into some some some thing apparently
normal because, I had to make crystalline
in this void of night and peculiar silence
that I was gay.
We had watched Monty
Python that night with our friends but
nothing flying in its circus matched
the absurdity as I turned for her reaction.
Mary? The solace secured in my survival
had cloaked her in a sound and soundless sleep.
PAINTING: “The Three Masks” by Juan Gris (1923).
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: A native New Yorker, James Penha has lived for the past quarter-century in Indonesia. Nominated for Pushcart Prizes in fiction and poetry, his verse appeared in 2019 in Headcase: LGBTQ Writers & Artists on Mental Health and Wellness (Oxford UP), Lovejets: queer male poets on 200 years of Walt Whitman (Squares and Rebels), and What Remains: The Many Ways We Say Goodbye (Gelles-Cole). His essays have appeared in The New York Daily News and The New York Times. Penha edits The New Verse News, an online journal of current-events poetry. Follow him on Twitter @JamesPenha.