Pernille Smith Larsen
For Marc Bolan (1947 – 1977)
I wanted to be you, your friend, your lover.
It was romance and dreams, not merely sex, you sold.
The ladyman with eyes rimmed in black kohl,
two-note riffs, and nursery rhymes, who discovered
the fun of glitter on guys, ties on girls.
In 10th grade, the boys dry-humped the classroom desks,
shouted Faggot at glimpses of tenderness.
In my daydream, I adorned their faces with swirls—
blue moons on foreheads, silver cheekbone treble clefs—
and the boys all wanted my glam arabesques.
I hung my puffed-out pinstripes on my gangly frame—
no mint-green satin, no pink boutonniere—
even still, I was marked fair game:
bull dyke, weirdo. But your songs spurred me: Fuck the jeers.
Ladyman, your licks are lovely. Their joy and magic
I refuse to relate to anything tragic.