Elizabeth and I Negotiate

over what we can afford
once we get to Charleston,
the Holy City, where churches 
outnumber everything, but bars—
our favorite one on Queen St.
where I kissed her on New Year's
in 2015, insisting she shouldn’t worry,
because we had a right to feel safe
even in the South. I felt entitled
to splurge on a horse-drawn carriage
where we cuddled in full sight,
got us a King-sized bed and 30-dollar
shrimp and grits I paid for with cash
I earned after withholding tax,
like the couples to our left
and our right. We dropped a bundle
because after years spent hiding
we knew there were worse things
to spend than money, like the time
we could never get back.

But this poem is not about that.

Today we gauge the exact amount
of PDA we can afford. We take
kissing off the table, tell each other
it’s a turn-on to wait 
until we get inside. We feel brave
when we allow ourselves 
the risk of holding hands 
in the Holy City, 
where we are now relearning
how to be afraid.