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.