The Long Learning
A poem dancing between danger & desire … a low warm growl in my ear …. light. Grr.
I grew up reading weather, not faces.
Storms, not signals.
I learned to scan a room
for who needed holding,
not who wanted me.
I was raised in the house of emergencies,
where love meant tending wounds
and quiet meant something was wrong.
Crisis was my first language.
Caretaking was my second.
Desire never made it into the house.
So sweetness confuses me.
Kindness feels like a trick of the light.
And when someone looks at me too long,
I check for exits,
not invitations.
I learned to read danger
the way other boys learned to read desire —
instinctively,
with my whole body,
without thinking.
So of course I can’t read signals.
Of course I don’t know when someone is drawn to me.
My body was trained to anticipate collapse,
not connection.
The first time someone said it,
I didn’t believe them.
His name was Lighthouse —
of course it was —
practical and beautiful,
tall and steady,
a man built for weather.
But did I know?
Not until two friends,
the once‑a‑year friend
and the soul‑sister friend,
both said it in the same breath:
“He’s flirting with you.”
And I said no,
not really,
that doesn’t happen to me.
I set my talent‑show clipboard down,
looked him in the eyes,
and asked,
“Are you flirting with me?”
as if how dare he,
as if I dared him
to say yes.
This beautiful, tall, bearded man
bent close,
and for the first time in my life
I felt a man’s whisper
brush my ear
without danger in it.
A low, warm growl:
“I like your light.”
He took my clipboard,
handed it to Lupine,
nodded toward Tittie,
reached out his hand
and said,
“Let’s go.”
And for the first time,
no alarms,
no scanning the room,
no danger —
I did.
But now,
after a lifetime of holding everyone else upright,
I am turning toward myself.
At almost sixty,
I am two years old
and ancient
at the same time —
a gay boy just learning
what it feels like
to be looked at
without needing to fix anything.
I’m learning the slow grammar
of being wanted.
I’m learning to stay
when someone sees me.
I’m learning that danger
is not the only thing
that glows in a room.
And somewhere inside all this,
my heart is a beginner again —
trying to remember
what it never got to know.
Daniel/Kana
Perseverance {PerSEE)
4/26/26
Bio
Daniel (Kana) writes at the intersection of queer culture, contemplative practice, and the communities that have shaped his life. His work travels widely and continues to evolve, rooted in the Northwest Radical Faeries, rose societies, and long-standing devotional and artistic lineages. A classically trained print journalist with two decades of reporting experience, he now mentors emerging writers, serves on editorial boards, and works in community mental health after a career in academe and public service.