They say Sri Lanka, a tiny island
Nation has so many gay men masquerading
As straight, in sparsely ploughed marriages
The nucleus of which gets bigger
With the arrival of the first born.
How difficult must it be to make a tiny clit
Muscled like Hercules, to make love
With a space suit on – after all this is as alien
As it gets. He will make love to the woman
Thinking of a flat moon of a man called Dan
– like in the day of Alexander, when all objects in the sky were flat –
Huffing and puffing, losing and gaining
In a mini marathon, knowing he is as excited as an accountant
Balancing the books of the town green grocer.
And somehow, the need of a baby
Makes him spill his wine at the right place
And he looks at himself, gives a high five
And a collars-up, kisses his wife and walks
Outside to the fridge. Dan was his sidekick
Burning the oil, packing a little ammo
Into his mushy plumbing. And with Space Dan
By his side, he made a baby with his wife.
And there was no placebo effect here
Or some unexplainable scientific phenomena.
It was a little drug called thought
That fuels everything in a gay man
Even a little nitrous oxide and a signal cascade
To pump some extra blood to where it matters.
And somewhere out there, there is a man called Dan
Who will miss a man that he lost to a woman
A man who knows the nagging truth
Of how deception is a closet door
And there are men who would lose everything
To be as normal, as society tells them.
And normal is a woman on the side
And baby in his arms
And Dan making pink candy floss swirls
In his third eye. The child will grow
Up looking at photos of his dad and Uncle Dan
Playing pool and drinking beer
Not knowing it was actually Dan
And his dad, that conceived him.
And his mother was only a mule
For his happiness.
And Uncle Dan would never know
How he was the blue pill for that night
The potency in the poetic
The wind for the kite
The invisible hand to a man,
Who will forever remain invisible
In front of the illusive glass
Of his bathroom mirror.