Fingers on a Gay Man
BY ZACH LINGE
Previously appeared in Poetry Magazine.
2020 Gregory Djanikian Scholar in Poetry, Finalist
Conversion Therapy
BY ZACH LINGE
Previously appeared, as an earlier version, in Nimrod International Journal.
2020 Gregory Djanikian Scholar in Poetry, Finalist
I was fifteen when my parents sent me
to one-on-one conversion therapy
down Wurzbach, behind Hooters
by the Boba place. I don’t remember
much. There was conversation, sure
a whiteboard—probably Kleenex
or some lotionless offbrand, the first
grown man who said masturbation
as if the word would follow close
behind me with a snigger and knife.
I do recall the therapist’s whiskers
how he said penis the way he said
prayer: sour-faced, as if only God knew
the punchline. Doctor Doctor I called
him, or by his first name, he said he was
a Christian first, counselor second
that I should learn to think of women
as warm, get a girlfriend, let myself
be held, and was I open to any of this?
I was, a child, scared as hell of hell
eager to do anything that might fix me
keep my Mom from muffling scared
sobs behind the thin door of her room
prevent my Dad from asking whether
I was attracted to penises. I was, of course
but don’t know any kid who’d admit
this. There were Actionable Preventions:
When you get the urge to touch yourself,
use the toilet instead and smell it—invite God
into your heart, call the son, holy ghost, spirit.
Imagine breasts; let God take care of the rest.
Did I study scripture? Did I recite lines
when I wanted to be kissed? Later, when
gays got the right to marry, I racked
my mind for a reaction other than This
too shall pass. I had pills for the morning
a job that busied me through afternoons
and long nights ahead of bringing back
whiteboards, that good old-time religion
and love for sinners, not the sin.
