A Prose Poem

I first saw Judy Garland, Barbra Streisand and Diana Ross on our black and white monster television. I dared not look away because I might lose their intensity. I wanted to be swallowed up by Diana’s large eyes, Barbra’s artistic hands and Judy’s pain. Diana gave me Baby Love. Barbra taught me diva logic with Cry Me A River and Judy told me, “I’ll sing them all and we’ll stay all night.” at her Carnegie Hall double album. And it wasn’t until I started going to the Studio One Backlot ten years later that I understood what Judy meant. My hands were raw from clapping and telling my lover Scott, “It feels like I’ve gone to heaven” after Julie Budd or Jane Oliver or Barbara Cook serenaded us.

 I had been living in Garden City Park, Long Island—feeling like the only Jewish Queer on the block when my diva worship of the threesome began.

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