Shopping in Washington,
bumming around Georgetown,
we hold hands and receive
smiles. Even shy couples are brave—
some who wouldn’t look at each other
on Back Street in Hometown,
out of fear,
kiss on busy street corners.
Here, among us, we are married,
recognized.
We ask one other the time of day
just to get the time of day.
We ask about the places we’re from.
We pass compliments.
We have found our home planet,
our family tree.
It used to rain because I was gay—
flat tires and the whole shebang
because I was gay. Today
it rains only because it is time to rain.
I see the dark clouds overhead,
and I see the lightning.
The colors are still bright.
People are smiling.
Deb R. Lewis currently teaches in the Fiction Writing Department of Columbia College Chicago, serves as an associate editor for F Magazine, and, while actively writing, neglects her website at www.DebRLewis.com.