I’ve crashed a party with an infinity pool and several nude men:
a Fire Island home at the back of a walkway long enough to
outlast a pop song’s bridge and some chorus, flanked by
phragmites on either side, tall and same-faced, so all
but reed bulk hides out from the exterior. Myself
included, close to everyone here has a body of
one approximate build. What would it say if I
stay? Comfort’s not so comfy here, but I stay
and try to have a good time: periodic beach
guest, mainly through favors from men
whose wealth eclipses mine and most
of humankind. I know firsthand why
queers come to this place, obliterate
coherence, take, go, take, till
we’ve consumed enough
to leave.
Someone riding the stiffest
substance cocktail he can muster
GROANS he’s got to pee and can’t,
his functions stalled in the twist and now.
What he can still swing is a smile. Excess
soaks the sundecks and each redwood inch
of the mini villa with a sweet-hot stickiness.
There’s much more to take in, with nowhere to go.

Copyright © 2024 by Kyle Carrero Lopez. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on January 16, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets. 

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“Cherry Grove and the Fire Island Pines—historic, adjoining gay communities on Fire Island—are beautiful, easy to reach from New York City, a blast if you’re with trusted friends, and a hotbed of race and class conflict. The ferries stop operating overnight, so you’re stuck once the last one leaves. One time, while discussing rental price-gouging in the Pines and suggesting that the safety Fire Island offers queer people should be accessible to all income levels, a gay man told me, ‘It’s Long Island, not insulin.’ I’m interested in what we willingly permit for the sake of our own enjoyment.”
—Kyle Carrero Lopez