Two Poems

Poetry / Stephen S. Mills

:: A History of Marriage ::


My parents married in October, 1973. 
Fall in Indiana. The smell of burning 
leaves. Browns. Oranges. Reds. 
The world shrinking down, preparing 
for winter—dying. 1973. The same year
Richard Nixon said, I’m not a crook
to a crowd in Orlando, Florida,
and the American Psychiatric 
Association removed homosexuality 
from its list of mental disorders. 
The same year of Roe vs. Wade 
and the opening of the World Trade
Center. A year of change. In October, 
my mother stood in a wedding dress 
white as Indiana winters. My father 
in a tuxedo beside her. Friends 
and family gathered. A minister 
presided. Vows were taken. It was 
a wedding that set into motion a life. 
A family. A bond of two bodies. 
One man. One woman. It was the same
year Jackson Pollock’s Blue Poles sold 
for two million dollars, and a gas shortage 
closed stations on Sundays leaving 
everyone desperate for a full tank. 
It was October, 1973. Leaves
on the ground. Fall in Indiana. 


There were days when we mimicked 
them. When you got down on one 
knee, a ring in hand. When yes I said 
yes I will Yes. When we bought 
wedding magazines, made guest lists,
thought of color combinations. 
There were days when our Midwest 
upbringing made a wedding, legally 
recognized or not, seem to matter most. 
There were days when you felt like 
a husband. Like my father. Like 
a shadow of a life I was meant to have.


Brides magazine says June is the month 
to marry. Sunshine. Flowers in bloom. 
The world exploding with new life. 
A new start. My sister married in June, 
1997. I was 14. She was 19. A young 
bride like my mother. Again in Indiana. 
1997. The year Timothy McVeigh 
was convicted of murder in the Oklahoma 
City bombing and Princess Diana died 
in that car crash. Our faces gathered 
in TV light, crying for a woman we didn’t 
know. A princess that wasn’t ours to have. 
Sylvia Plath also married in June. 
June of 1956. She’d only known Ted 
Hughes a few short months. 
She was in awe of him, his poetry, 
his drive, but that didn’t end so well, 
did it? 1956. The same year Jackson 
Pollock drove drunk and crashed his car, 
killing him and his current fling—not 
his wife. My sister never read Plath
or Hughes. Never stood before a Pollock.  


There were days when we hated them.
When we despised the wedding 
invitations in the mailbox, the gift 
registries, the bachelorette parties 
at the gay club, the girls bouncing 
up and down with pink plastic penises 
on their heads, which made us wonder 
if they’d ever seen a real one. 
There were days when we felt evolved. 
Our couple-hood our own. 
No wedding required. No paperwork.
No public announcement. Then there 
was the day I slipped my ring off 
my left hand and onto my right. 
Our symbol. Our sign. Not theirs. 


Grace Kelly married the Prince 
of Monaco in 1956. She never acted 
again, but is best known for her roles 
in Hitchcock’s Dial M for Murder 
and Rear Window. She died in a car 
crash the same year I was born. 
1982. The year William Bonin 
was convicted of being a Freeway 
Killer. One of three. He admitted 
to killing and raping 21 young men 
and dumping them beside the California 
freeway. Sometimes with the help 
of his friend Vern. He became the first
person in California put to death
by lethal injection. People say January 
Jones who plays Betty Draper on Mad 
Men looks a lot like Grace Kelly. 
Beautiful. Blonde. Betty marries Don. 
A picture perfect couple. Spoiler Alert: 
it doesn’t last. Raymond Burr, 
another 1950’s actor, who played Perry 
Mason, had two fake marriages 
and then a real one, which he annulled 
a few months later. The time of year 
doesn’t seem to matter in that case. 
Summer? Fall? The dead of winter? 
Later he met a man. They grew orchids 
together. Fell in love. Grew old. 


There were days when we spoke 
of leaving. Of moving to Canada,
Spain, South Africa. The poster boys
of marriage equality. There were days 
we felt defeated by our own desires.
Our bodies moving in different 
directions. There were days we 
accepted the beauty of our love. 
Our choices. Our rules. There were
days spent with other men. Nights
in other bodies. Sometimes together.
Sometimes alone. There was the day
we separated love and sex and placed 
them in boxes beside the bed. No longer 
needing approval. There were fights
in the bright sunlight of our apartment
and in the shadows of night 
where fights are meant to thrive
and eventually die. Then there were days 
when we could only bear each other. 
My body on your body. The world 
outside desperate to define us. 

:: Slicing Limes for Dustin ::

          “and what does it mean
          if he tells his wife she’s unpleasant or dull
          and what
          it mean
          if his wife takes sleeping pills or walks
          in front of a car?”
                    —Diane Wakoski, “Slicing Oranges for Jeremiah”

And what does it mean to stand in a kitchen
slicing limes for cocktails?
Limes for Dustin?
For drinks we will consume
which will make us happy for a time
then horny
and maybe
if we are lucky 
fully alive for just a second?

And what does it mean 
that we can’t eat as many limes as we want?
That we can so easily get sick 
on the citrus?
Stomachs aching?
What does it mean to care 
for a sick person?
To wash his body?
Comb his hair?
And what does it mean 
for a body to show signs of stopping?
Or for a mind to get confused?
To regret an action?
To do the things it never thought possible?

What does it mean 
to stand here
taking care 
of you
taking care of me? 
To find comfort in this knife 
puncturing the bright green skin
of a lime?
Green balls of light.

And what does it mean to fall in love again
and again 
with limes in drinks
and the cutting board 
smeared with pulp?
Or to go out into the city 
and dance
with other bodies? 
To be on display?
To have more drinks with sliced limes?
Limes cut by other hands
by other men
in other places.

And what does it mean for an old queen to say 
we don’t live in the real New York?
That it’s gone?
That somehow only one person’s experience 
is real?
And what does it mean 
to never want to be that old queen?
To never be that jaded?

And what does it mean 
that we stood outside
the Stonewall Inn and drank cocktails
with limes
on the day the Supreme Court 
struck down DOMA?
Was that not real?
And what does it mean to only look backward?
To always be longing for another decade?
Another time?

And what does it mean for two men
to be protected 
under the law?
To call each other husband?
And what does it mean to know 
that if we ever want to leave 
each other
it will have to be official? 
Paperwork goes both ways. 

And what does it mean to become 
a housewife voluntarily?
To slice limes for a husband?
Limes for Dustin?
And what does it mean to be married
yet remain queer?
Remain two men in love?
Bonded together?
What does it mean?


From the writer

:: Account ::

I start at the begin­ning. The very begin­ning. Mean­ing most of my poems have a title before they have a body. Titles inspire me and dri­ve my poems. Some­times I’ll have a title for weeks or months before it becomes a poem. Even­tu­al­ly, if I’m lucky, the title leads to a body, and then through a long revi­sion process, I have a poem worth send­ing out into the world.

Pop cul­ture also fuels most of my work. I use pop cul­ture like oth­er poets use mythol­o­gy or reli­gion because it serves a sim­i­lar pur­pose. It helps make sense of our lives. We con­nect to what we see in movies or on TV or what we hear on the radio. We see par­al­lels in our own lives. My poems explore those con­nec­tions as well as our con­nec­tion to cur­rent or recent events. The news or media often fac­tor into my work.

In “A His­to­ry of Mar­riage,” I’m attempt­ing to make sense of the idea of mar­riage through my expe­ri­ence as a gay man view­ing my family’s mar­riage his­to­ry as well as the mar­riages of lit­er­ary fig­ures, artists, and actors from the 1950s and 60s. I jux­ta­pose the “hap­pi­ness” of mar­riage with many ter­ri­ble things that hap­pened in each year. This poem is the open­ing to my new col­lec­tion forth­com­ing from Sib­ling Rival­ry Press in Sep­tem­ber of 2014. It sets the stage for the book and all of these fig­ures reap­pear in some way in the poems that follow.

Out­side of pop cul­ture and the media, I’m also pulled in by oth­er poets and inter­est­ed in how I fit into a broad­er lit­er­ary land­scape. This can be seen in my poem “Slic­ing Limes for Dustin,” which is indebt­ed to a Diane Wakos­ki poem. This poem also explores mar­riage and what it means to be a gay mar­ried couple.

Both of these poems serve as good exam­ples of what I believe poet­ry is capa­ble of doing. I strive to make poems that use famil­iar things in unex­pect­ed and inter­est­ing ways. I also nev­er want to bore my read­er. Hav­ing a poem of mine called “bor­ing” would prob­a­bly be the great­est insult.


Stephen S. Mills holds a MFA from Flori­da State Uni­ver­si­ty. His work has appeared in The Anti­och Review, The Gay and Les­bian Review World­wide, PANK, The New York Quar­ter­ly, The Los Ange­les Review, Knock­out, Assara­cus, The Rum­pus, and oth­ers. He is also the win­ner of the 2008 Gival Press Oscar Wilde Poet­ry Award. His first book, He Do the Gay Man in Dif­fer­ent Voic­es (Sib­ling Rival­ry Press, 2012), was a final­ist for the Thom Gunn Poet­ry Award and won the 2012 Lamb­da Lit­er­ary Award for Gay Poet­ry. He lives in New York City. Web­site: