chromatographics

gay poems by mb bischoff

#sex

6 poems

nude

back then, i saw your body just on screens —
pinpricks of light transferred across the line.
soft curves and folds, i felt you in my dreams;
those pictures, now, are burned into my mind.


and then i touched your silken skin at last,
traced these lines with red ink until they dripped,
gripped thighs while kissing slow, then hard & fast,
embraced to warm the places we had stripped.


but now i’m separated from your touch,
yearning for the ways we fit, like jigsaw
pieces you never need to force too much.
despite it all : i’m here. i won’t withdraw.


you’re nude before my eyes, no matter where.
i’ll drink you up and leave them none to spare.

a⸺part

thin string between us
stretching miles
connecting our chests



tension we can sense
tugging twine
winding over land



we set it aside
knotted tight
when we’re together



the rope uniting us
untying now
because we’re home




we don’t need help
to touch
when we’re here

t4t

i read that things used to be different for us. that we used to hide behind heavy coats, from ourselves. i read that we’d get compared to cigarettes on the street in broad daylight just for walking the wrong way. things are different for us now. not because we are the majority, but because we are not, and we know that. our difference is our value.

things changed because seasons did. the old trees that once ruled the forest have fallen, been subsumed into the soil. things changed because our elders fought for us and their enemies dwindled. life is no less complicated here and now. it may be more so. but that complexity, that intricacy, that is part of what makes this worth it.

i went on a date yesterday. they had two faces and three names. his lips felt like safety and possibility and becoming. we didn’t need to connect our brains with wires to see. we spoke the same language, we knew the same songs. our bodies united like an antique lock and key, lubricated with the oil of our passion. i want more. no, i need it.

all my friends are trans. i broke up with the ones who weren’t.
they understood.

change is good. the people that don’t get that will never get us. not all change is for the better, but the potential for growth and for flourishing is all we have. the possibility that tomorrow will be a new day with new rules. and that we’ll be here for each other when it arrives. that we’ll nurture the seeds and each other. that we can.

just use mine

he’s wanted one, i think, a while
still growing his, it takes its time
i wonder: why not just use mine?


our parts are modular by design
they’re aftermarket optimized
hot-swappable and still divine


then i’m above and he’s below
press into him, extend a loan
tell him: touch, like it’s your own


he strokes it like a precious gift
he must be worried, he’ll miss it
the gratitude vibrates his wrist


he shakes as need remaps the mind
and both our systems intertwine
we once mistake his flesh for mine


i ask him softly if it was good
he nods like i rewound the world
we had made what no one could

birdcage

you ask me if i’m okay
⸻ with elevators?
which strikes me odd,
the way your eyes do


we board & take flight
to the control room, 42
teacups on brass hooks
carefully cluttered views


press my buttons, down
with the same force you
use to operate machines.
the right pressure matters


the doors close around
your fingers, lights flicker
surging harnessed power
i can’t look away, i won’t


we fall together back to
earth where we stumble
into your unmarked van.
click of clear recognition


the next time i step into
your cage you kiss my
eyes closed and pull a
lever
          that
                  stops
                             time


we’re suspended⸺ trapped
in moments of wrought iron
pressed against their grates
and each other’s full frames


             for as long
             as we are,
             we get to
             be happy

atlantic
  pacific

i often wake three hours before
your sunrise calls for a response
logbook already soaked with ink
we laugh, but even if we could,
why constrain our outporings?


one winter day you ask for
notes on undersea strings
aware of both the timbre
and tempo of these songs
we start signing together


i fall into an evening rhythm
talking and yes moaning into
the phonograph, my head then
swallowed by the brassy cone
our voices sound better inside


when you open your ears again
there’s so much weather to hear :
wind and rain and quiet calm that
lasts too long and means too much
we keep sailing even without a map


true, land divides us more than sea,
but these two coasts call to us both
maybe it’s the sirens or the sounds
of wavecrash against the shore —
the dangers of unfathomed depths