Queer Belongings
after Elspeth Probyn’s “Queer Belongings: The politics of departure”
It’s not that the countryside blends,
it’s just that there’s so damn much of it. I named the Subaru
Gertrude. Trudie, most days. I trust her, this
marvel of a box, whose inner workings I understand
less than my own. I am reading about departures and queer
belonging in a campground a state or two after South Dakota,
and as I’m reading, my breath tightens, stops, and I am acutely aware
of Montana, if that’s where I am, or Wyoming. I hear the rustling
and soft swears of the butch
woman at the neighboring campsite rearranging
her tent. I am thinking about making eye contact
with her. A line of trees witnesses me, in a red camp chair, covered in
a plush blanket, hunched over this book, wearing
my favorite flannel, a worn green and grey plaid. I hope
the woman sees me. I hope she sees me in the way queer women want
to be seen by other queer women,
which has nothing to do with the way
I want straight women to see me, or men. I want queer women
to see me prismatically; I want to be split
apart, opened. And held, seen and
still held. I am wanting and wanting to be recognized
wanting. I want my desire witnessed before
it is met. I cannot hold this radiating need
gingerly, there is too damn much of it. I cannot imagine a life
cut free from unmet desire, it is a compass in my pocket, heavy
and insistent. Yearning is as queer to me
as the next signifier. I am lighting a fire
for the encroaching evening, and she looks.
Header photo by anatoliy_gleb, courtesy Shutterstock.