The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: I Can Tell You The Version That Will Make You Take My Side by J Brooke

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WHEN I CAME OUT TO YOU

When I bit Barbie’s head off, when I stole Jim’s racecar
pajamas, wearing them underneath. My baseball cap
seemingly surgically attached from kindergarten
through college I waged war whenever asked about

wearing tops on bathing suits. When I swigged Sprite,
imitating you drinking Heineken, emulating you
wiping the drips with my sleeve instead of napkin.
I wore a sweatshirt over two t-shirts both always stained

(one from mustard the other blood.) Hating you
teasing me, saying I wanted to marry Joe Namath—
yeah, no. I wanted to be Joe Namath and you knew it.
When I said call me “Sport” instead of “sweetheart,”

shoving my hands deep in my pockets, practicing spitting,
knuckle-cracking, peeing while standing. Toothpick in mouth,
sticking out, like a thug or a gangster. All those times begging
through a payphone for authentic cowboy boots, begging

for thick brown leather belts pleading for
LL Bean Black Watch plaid flannel, desperate
for a men’s navy blazer— my holy grail—
the secret inside pockets where I’d conceal

a pocketknife, lighter, playing cards, marbles,
string. I used to write you from my bunk in camp,
with a flashlight write asking for a men’s 10-speed,
GI Joes, sling shots, boxing gloves, Daisy Rifle,

boomerang, chemistry sets, erector sets,
a set of real walkie talkies to communicate
clearly, hoping I could be understood. I’d shave
my face stealing shaving cream you left behind,

slapping on your old aftershave, imagining
your big sandpaper hands bookending my face.
I’d thank grandpa whenever he’d chuckle at me
saying, “You could pass for a starting linebacker!” “You

definitely walk like Bucky Dent” said Uncle Stanley. My favorite
however, remains, “You move like a bull in a china shop”—
which mom said a lot, between her cigarette puffs describing me
to myself, forever making zero sense. After you left her,

leaving me too, alone fishing around in the dark for loose quarters,
dimes, nickels I’d save up, never spending. Your remnants, I saved
in this empty cigar box I hid under my bed. Keeping it wrapped in
tin foil, dropping it on your blanket in the end, coming out to you.

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