Two Poems by Stephen K. Kim

First Time

That summer, I convinced my parents
I was old enough to stay in the city
with some friends I ditched to sneak
through an unmarked door and descend
a flight of stairs where each footfall
echoed and faint whiffs of Irish Spring
reminded me of men whose thighs
strained their jeans.

My heartbeat stuttered,
as I walked into a lowlit room
where I saw the bathhouse’s
skinny attendant turn his bored face
to mine. Clocking fear in my eyes
despite my feigned nonchalance, he softened
his gaze. Squinting as if to gauge
my mettle, his hands
brushed mine as he took
my license and credit card,
passed back a locker key and three condoms
in bright blue wrappers.
I stammered thank you as he shooed me
with a flick of his wrist,
towards the door
I dreamed all year of opening,
and soon I would, the polished metal push bar
cool against my forearm.

Yet for a moment, I wondered
should I turn back because
what lay beyond that door
was something
irrevocable: a reckoning,
a ruination,
a deliverance.

*

You declare your emancipation in Hell’s Kitchen

after Kinsale Drake

at Boxers gay sports bar with your ex-boyfriend. The shirtless
bartender delivers two pornstar martinis. Today, you must

be joyful as you watch the gyrating go-go boy fondle himself
and wonder if he wears a cock ring to keep himself hard

as lonely men like you stuff dollar bills into his jockstrap. Your ex
reaches his hand behind your neck, and you let his tongue slide

into your mouth because today must be joyous. Later, as he snores
in your bed, you open TikTok and a dapper man in a tux asks

Am I the drama? Am I the villain? You ponder this about yourself.
Your ex rouses and tells you to go to sleep. His gruff rasp

reminds you of your father, and you admit that’s probably why
you dated the guy. And the way he cooks like your mother,

using so little oil that takeout feels like it leaves residue
on your teeth. You think about calling them when you remember

you can no longer protect them from your desires which
they couldn’t comprehend because they cocooned themselves

in the fiction that the world did not change since they immigrated.
Earlier that day, thanks to some gossiping uncle, they discovered

all of who you were and slammed the door in your face
when you dropped by. You stood stunned despite rehearsing

a hundred times over how you’d take a deep breath, count to ten,
and knock firmly again. Instead, you found your arms riveted

to your ribcage as you wondered if they could hear
how you gasped for air as if you were starting to drown.

*

Stephen K. Kim (he/him) is a queer Korean American writer and educator in New Jersey. He enjoys spending time with his husband and his cat. His poems appear in Ghost City Review, Neologism, Thimble, and elsewhere. He is a Best of the Net nominee, a student and teacher at the Writers Studio, and a reader for Only Poems. He can be found online @skimperil.