There’s Billy Porter commanding the red carpet in a tuxedo dress. Imperiously handsome. Strong shoulders and lapels that ride slim to the waist. The dress, a gown that flares from his hips and shines in the paparazzi light, all softness and strength.
Duncan, my old camp counselor: a bear in overalls who tells us to stay punk for life. What are your pronouns? he asks. He cries easily, preaches anarchy as communal care.
There’s Harry Styles eating a watermelon: ridiculous in a crocheted sleeveless tank, tattoos on full display.
A kid I met playing frisbee: jorts, a wispy mustache, unshielded kindness.
Adam, from that one writing class in college: bearded, always a smile poking through.
Cutter, the instructor for that class, tells us to never stop asking questions and I write that I would be swept away by his disapproval.
A t-shirt that reads “Free Pizza for Life.” Thick-knuckled hands tucked into jean pockets. A forest path with pine needles softening underfoot. Lit fireworks sparking against a darkness that extends into the sky. Rorschach sweat patterns and the lawnmower growl of a summer afternoon.
Like little tokens I can hold, worn pebble-smooth with use.
Mike Keller-Wilson lives and writes in Iowa City, Iowa. He is a founder & co-editor-in-chief of Vast Chasm Magazine. In his day job, he helps students and teachers develop their talents and tries not to share every dad joke he thinks of. Find him at mikekellerwilson.com.
Mike, this is lovely. I find myself adding to your list: Ben Whishaw onstage; Colman Domingo on the red carpet; Bronzino's imperious young man, one hand on his hip, realizing we might be more diverting than the book he was reading....
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