Page 112 of The Black Flamingo

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between poetry and spoken word,

and then about how he wishes he could

write poetry and I try to convince him

that he can if he wants to. I’ll help him,

if he wants me to—?

Then he tells me he doesn’t study here.

He’s Simon’s brother, just visiting.

He says he loves visiting Simon

because: “Everyone here is so free.

Back in our town, people are restricted

by family expectations and childhood

reputations.”

“I wasn’t made for university,” says Jack.

“I’m a practical person. I make a good

living in construction. And I get to travel

with it sometimes. I’m always surrounded

by men and their banter and their anger

and their hurt, and sometimes I just want

to hug them, you know, invite them to open up.”

I do know, Jack. I really do.I’m following

his monologue but all I can think about

is how much I want to stop him midsentence

with a kiss.

But Jack continues:

“I’m not gay, but men, we can understand

each other and yet we never talk honestly.

We put it all on our girlfriends—

not that I have one. I’ve read about this

online; it’s work for them, emotional labor.”

I’m hearing this semicoherent account

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