wildscape. literary journal

I’m still learning how to talk to men.
by Tyler McDonald

Some of them greet me as they pedal past
             on their bikes, and I don’t have to say anything.
I wave my hand and carry on.
             Words caught in the back of my throat.

Other times they’re on the opposite end
             of a Microsoft Teams meeting. I pretend
I don’t hear them when they ask our group
             how our weekends went. I don’t need to know

what they’d say if I confessed, “I dressed up as a sexy sailor,
             went to the gay bars in Over-the-Rhine,
blacked out after my ninth shot.”
             Although I’m not sure if I’d tell that to anyone.

Tonight a man instructed my piano lesson,
             my class partner a little boy named Blaine. I pity 
laughed maniacally at Blaine’s joke about the periodic
             table. There was awkward silence after.

The instructor chewed on pen, stone
             faced. We practiced ear training without words.
These are the interactions that I handle quietly.
             I can say nothing at all when I’m uncomfortable.

Most of the men I’ve known have been preachers,
             stepfathers, preacher’s sons, step-
brothers, and characteristically,
             the most morally depraved men on earth.

This is why my family doesn’t celebrate Christmas anymore.
             A few holiday seasons ago, my stepfather drank
himself into fists. My sister and I clay statues.
             My mother still strings white lights all around her house.

There was the preacher who stole church tithes,
             unrelenting coffee breath. Flirted with the youth group,
his wife in the nursery. He wrote in my Bible, 
             This book will keep you from the world, or the world

will keep you from this book.
             Outside of a bar last September, a group of guys
with jeans tucked into their cowboy boots 
             called me a faggot as I walked past.

My friend Emma didn’t let it slide. Disbelief in her stars.
             She slapped him across the face twice.
I ripped her off of him as his friends shouted,
             Don’t hit the girl! Don’t hit the girl!

His fist landed against my Adam’s apple. I didn’t see the punch,
             the vodka caught the pain for me.
I rubbed my neck to check if my pearl necklace was still intact,
             then I launched after him.

His friends held us apart as I threatened to kill him.
             There are moments when I feel like a villain,
I am trying to grasp the male condition.
             Emma and I entered the bar,

splashed water on my face as we cried
             in the women’s bathroom.
But this June when a man dabbed me up
             outside of the club,

I flinched when he dropped
             his vape pen, pointed at me: That’s my brother right there.
I don’t want any brothers.
             I’ve tried to have those before.
	
It ended in the guys from middle school calling me slurs,
             lonesome on the boys-only schoolbus,
hollering, What dress are you going to wear to the dance?
             I feel like the tacky disco ball, whirling,

stage four lymphoma, as voices crack
             the classroom saying I deserve it. They laugh at my moon face,
reach to rip off my beanie in a rundown gymnasium.
             I’m getting older, but I still carry grudges.

This November is bitter and I’ve had five glasses
             of watermelon white wine.
I’d like to say it’s nice to have a friend.
             I can’t see past the condensation on the skylight.

I’m still learning how to talk to men.
             I’d just like to have a male friendship.
How many of us climb the apple tree
             only to find the fruit rotten off the branch?

about the author // Tyler McDonald