Dear Mike Pence,
       

Might homosexuality be contagious,

like where you touch a door knob and then wipe your eye and two days later
you have a scratchy throat? Or like a restaurant patron

seeing Baked Alaska at another table flaunt its frosted heat, tender cake under cold fruity
creaminess and fluffy mountains of meringue. You've heard of it.

Or are you born that way? Either liking women or men or both and in-between. Or neither. Or not knowing or at least not knowing yet. Or wanting to know. Or not?

Watch the person move their spoon into the mound.

The Romans. Look what happened to them.

Why do you call your wife "mother"?

Hear a faint smack of lips.

Your daughter's story is about a rabbit based on Marlon Brando.

If we're talking about animals, recall the two male penguins who raised an orphan chick. Or
the half female-half male cardinal. You could see the split.

That's genetic. Abominations, etc. Can we blame

Augustine who thought he could live without a body and wanted everyone else
to do the same.

Yada, yada, yada. Which means "know" in Hebrew. Or to show mercy.

Each of us has things we must turn away from. Look

but don't touch. Think but don't act. Don't think too hard, actually. Feel.

No, don't feel.

The whole room orders the flaming thing.

Because you weren't really hungry.

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