Dear Dear

Abstract

Dear Dear Reuben Gelley Newman (bio) 1. The dog-eared copy of Autobiography of Redseemed like something archival to him,smudged with the fingerprints of who knows how many boysand perhaps some charcoal and semen,so of course he lingered in the library with the Hershey’s Kissesleft over from Valentine’s Day and the vague reminiscesof the potatoes he parboiled and roasted for dinnerwith a smattering of cumin and paprika,all doused in maple syrup and some mundanebrand of Argentinian olive oil,a few carrots thrown in for luck, roasted to the point of burning,because burning is what every boy wants,especially when they are aloneand it is winter. 2. He is cooking meatfor the first time. Initiallythere is nothing much to it:tossing the boneless thighsinto the pot to braise,then waiting until the fleshabsorbs the memoriesof kale striving in someindustrial farm underacres of mechanized sunlight.Next time he will dig his hands [End Page 77] into the chicken, marinate itin lemon juice and olive oilwith spices, or lay wings to crackleon a sheet pan. He was nevera vegetarian but nowhe eats meat like a man.After all, he has grown.He has grown up. 3. His brain marinates marvelouslyin the winter air, as if there isa bubble of thought brimming with glimmersof ice haloing him.He decides to live against desire.He decides to make a snow angeland freeze for hours in the absenceof desire. Then he goes to his job at the library where he retrievesbook after book from the stackswith dry titles he can’t remember. Exceptsomebody asks for Coraline. 4. Living against desire is a joke.Or so he thinks, one afternoon,when deer prints garnishthe fresh snow as he goes outto do the laundry. Havingmasturbated. Having showered.Having not done the laundryfor two weeks. He still thinks of himselfas a boy even though by all rights and purposeshe is a man. If the poem is a diary,he is a princess. If the poem [End Page 78] is an elegy, he is a monk. If the poem is a mask,he is a goddamn faggot and he does his nailsin brilliant purple before plucking a penfrom perfectly coiffed hair. 5. As a kid he dressed up. Or played dress-up.Played at being that princess. Cinderella was his favorite.The purple silk skirt, tattered hem, his grandmother made him.Fucking nostalgia. The prerogative of queers.The past is mythic. You’re on the yellow brick road,following breadcrumbs to Troy. 6. He is alone. It is winter. He walks through the forestin old sneakers after the thaw, having failedto realize the slush is still married to the ground.His shoes get soaked, drunk on the earlyarrival of spring. False, assuredly.Yet fifty-degree weather does a happy fairy make.The yellow birches continue peeling poemscomprised of their skin. The beech woods loiter,bemused in youthful arrogance. A reticentvolcano lurks beyond the next hilltop.A dragon lives inside it. A deer flashesthrough the maples and the fairy burnswith desire. He can’t wait for roast venisonat the dragon’s Sunday brunch.He supposes he has a crush.Will the dragon eat him for breakfast?Will the dragon make love to him at night?So many exciting possibilities! [End Page 79] 7. He climbs to the top of Vesuvius, sifts through pumice stone.He is with his Latin class. It is his junior year of high school.Spring. He has so much left to learn about love. 8. The chicken stew grows bones.A ghost chicken rises from burntsplatters between the stovetop spirals.When he cuts off its head, it goes runningamok in the griddle garden. Invisible blood.Two heads grow back. He takes the chicken asa present to the dragon. Here, he says, a two-headedghost chicken. Isn’t that exciting? (More exciting thanroast venison!) Cluck, cluck, goes the chicken. Meh,I’ve seen better...