I couldn’t watch Glee with my parents, probably
because Mom thought teen dramas with hookups made kids horny,
and, well, she was right. Or rather, the hormones within me honored
the hormones within you, Finn Hudson.
I watched it illicitly,
practically porn on the basement computer.
Hot makeouts and scandalous showtunes
I wouldn’t be allowed to sing.
Oh, and the gays. So many gays!
Like my aunt and her “friend,” taboo in my house.
While I was more raw spaghetti stick than curly cooked noodle,
I felt we understood each other,
hiding our sexuality
from those who would judge us; at church, they preached
modest is hottest, true love waits for your heart
to shrivel like a raisin,
casual dating leads
to bastard babies and divorce on demand,
left me thinking even being a girl liking a boy was a bad thing,
because wanting anything was wrong.
So I liked no one. I took that raisin heart.
Burrito-ed myself in layers of blankets, hid so one could see me
down in the basement, with the office door closed,
the volume turned low.
There I could pretend to be a kid
who could do anything those Glee kids could do.
Like love anyone I want. Love anyone at all.
Emily Polson holds a BFA in creative writing from Belhaven University and has been published in FEED, Epoch Press, 433 Magazine,and elsewhere. Originally from central Iowa, she now lives in Brooklyn and works at Scribner. You can follow her on Twitter @emilycpolson.