In my songs, I do not care
if you are gay or you’re not.
I sing to either case.
If you are, you know their gift
of fisted hands.
We owe them nothing back but rage.
We owe them nothing back, but give
a different gift. We hold the dreams
they used to hold, give meaning to their days.
If you’re not, think of these; the aunt
who made your clothes when you were small;
the son who phoned today.
Make no mistake, they are. You always took
the easy gifts we gave. Now we give
the hardest gift; now you do not take.
Moonlight, from behind the clouds,
falls across my hands. A whippoorwill
sings out from the brush, calling out its place.
Within my arms, my lover rests his head.
His eyes awake to moonlight. His beard shines
black and gold; his smile shines in his face.
In my songs, I do not care
if you are gay or you’re not.
I’m singing, writing, waiting, dreaming,
calling out my place.
David Milley
