Three poems by Ken Pobo

Before I Came Out

Pastor Clack fitted me
for a roomy chastity belt,
so big that it held our church,

my school and neighborhood.
This belt hurt when I tried
to move. One day,

near the end of junior year,
it just popped off. I left it
on the tar and walked home.

The warm sun delightfully
lavender, the moon
wearing a white jump suit.

Wedding License

At the courthouse I learn
we’ll need 60 bucks.
Love works 9-5 too.
The form asks
no relevant questions,
like what songs will we play
that day? We’ll stand in

“the halls of justice”
that echo from the ghosts
of murdered gay people.

Colonial House Laundromat, St. Germain, Wisconsin

Front loaders look at me
like I’m the Dalai Lama
and I have enough wisdom
to start the machine for nothing.
Dryers with Dante-in-Hell mouths,
let me hear pop tunes of buttons
and buckles hitting with each spin.
Even magazines where
the crossword puzzle is finished,
page 37 missing, I sneak them home.
Magazines rarely smell of detergent
as they do here. I’m Blanche DuBois

in a rinse cycle’s magic. Everyday
miracles clatter down from
a beige change machine.