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St Barnabas in the Afterlife

Heaven is just a storage locker for ghosts with no one to haunt.
I spend my days wringing out the laundry of my flesh, airing it
like a braid of garlic from the ceiling. My martyrdom
requires upkeep—patching and darning, and always
the slipping of the parts of me that haven’t yet let go.

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Seed

Everything starts with a seed; this poem, for example. I watered
and watched them every day at first—not able to tell the carrots
from the weeds until the second leaves unfold.

When we got it from the dog’s mouth, it was small, eyes closed,
unmoving on the floor but not dead, not yet. The dog was gentle
with the creature she dug out from under the dresser. What was it,
this outsider? Was it mouse, or squirrel, or rat?

The second leaves are frilled and bright green, small, delicate.
You must thin them, give them room, kill some to save the others.
You try to pick the strongest of the wisps, and trim the others with
scissors, one by one.

Visitors is what the Bible calls angels. In Sodom they were
vulnerable. Their host offers his children to the crowd, to do with
what they please. Kill some to save the others.

Soon after we pry the dog’s mouth, after we gently place the infant
in a bag, after we crush the skull with our heel, weeks later,
we see a mother squirrel carrying a folded baby over half her size
in her mouth. The child clings to her. We watch this mother
teaching this one that’s left to gather leaves from broccoli, fold
them, bunch them into cheeks to carry to safety.

It’s becoming colder at night. We shut our children’s windows
to keep out the cold, to protect. Only some of us are made to see
the Spring.

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Aphorisms for Lips

One lip is the reflection of the other.

Two lips are a rose.

Lips attack in pairs. He should never have approached them.

Lips are tongue-tamers.

Lips try to learn from the teeth how to bite.

Lips spread like honey across her face.

He studied her lips but forgot how to read.

Two lips eloped.

Lips ran to the ears with the news.

Two feral lips peeked out from the beard.

A lip is a trap for pray.

He went to the very lip of her lip and fell in.

Lips cushioned his fall.

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Thunder

Sometimes night wakes up
in the middle of day.

The memory of warm breath on ear’s spiral.
Like a voice whispering thunder,

and then thunder.
Electricity hovering like a kite

casting a shadow,
slice of night blown circling.

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Aphorisms for the Eyes

An eye is a jellyfish caught from the see.

A glass eye is like a fake accent.

An eye is the most fragile thing you can’t drop.

A goddess decorating a tree with eyes.

The eyes will always have it.

A tear is the fruit of the eye.

How does one look for a lost eye?

An eye is a target.

There are two eyes in I.

The lashes are the gates of the eyes.

Not only cloudy eyes produce rain.

He was sentenced to a thousand eyelashes.

He asked for a thousand more.

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LGB  NO LONGER MY 4-LE  ER WORD

Yeah I’m rans bu mos people can’ ell.
Maybe hey can ell I’m nonbinary bu mos days
hey jus misgender me “hey mam” ( hough I’m no ).
I was born his way, I always knew I was a boy
growing up bu back hen I was called “ omboy”
which a leas had “boy” in he name. Puber y
blockers weren’ a hing hen, bu sex-change
surgery was and I ried every angle bu my paren s
wouln’ buy i , so I s opped asking and grew up
wi h he wrong hormones coursing hrough me.
I looked like a sor of girl bu fel s ill so much
like a guy bu hen over ime I admi I grew o
apprecia e my female hink bu s ill, I never did
adjus o my body so I wear loose clo hing I wear
a rucker cap a lo (mos of he ime backwards)
and have never been a fan of mirrors bu I don’
wan surgery anymore because i ’s surgery… and
I have already been hrough oo much. I ’s a personal
decision o live (as I do, a “ hey / hem) and I was glad
when hose pronouns became ubiqui ous
because hen I defini ely fel more seen. Bu of course
“ hey/ hem” since he las elec ion isn’ qui e as
accep ed jus like I’m no qui e as accep ed…
Presiden rump said in his inaugura ion speech
I don’ even exis ! I was in Canada during ha
momen so didn’ hear him bu he said here are
only wo genders and hey are dic a ed by your body
a bir h. rump is mis aken on his, jus like he is
abou so many hings. He go rid of our rans flag
and he go rid of our le er “ ” in LGB bu he can’
ge rid of me no ma er wha he akes away
or how he spells ha e.

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OUT LATE

So yeah, I know it feels late
telling you this I mean sure
me having had a trans kid—
pretty grand omission right?

Hear me out on this particular
elephant room-sauntering—
it’s not like K appeared trans
all his life just different to me

in a takes one to know one way.
Really mostly we were flipping
pancakes, carting K & his sibs
to basketball, soccer, jujitsu, art

music lessons same as any other
attempting non-dysfunction fam
with queer parents navigating
difficult weekend fathers and K

adamantly hetero before lesbian
-leaning finally realizing he was
he so we jumped right in helping
transition along the way sourcing

gender affirming medical care
ushering K through changing
his legal name birth certificate
driver’s license passport under-

wear hoodies socks watch razor
shave cream deodorant hair gel
nose piercing even warranting
a shift. I admit having post-op

post top surgery squeamishness
changing his drains, thankfully
his brother A, trained as EMT,
rescued us both, so I got away

only double knotting trash bags
filled with blood-soaked gauze.
K asked me to edit most family
and childhood photos he looked

not masculine in, so I cut them
up tiny before igniting in a fire
pit fire burning K’s old bras too
as we celebrated ashes tangoing

across our lawn while Sia sang
Chandelier loud out of the blue-
tooth speaker K knocked over
reaching for his third Herradura.

Wild joy like that night needs to be
protected, so I tuck it tight. Bind it
close to my heart—never risking it
being diluted by a big gender stew.

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CANCER SCARE

That’s how I know for sure I don’t
want top surgery I of course want

the outcome come out flat smooth
skin I want the reflection I always

squinted into mirrors hoping to see
myself reflected outside a loose tee

shirt beneath button downs ajar like
curtains loose layers layered looser

I pull again and again yanking poor
innocent fibers imploring they offer

impossible space for me to hide I’d
toss them all begin a fresh downsize

to medium or small jettison my soupy
slouchy swimmy threads dump donate

or burn the motherfuckers I desire that
outcome if only I can just blink it onto

me, awake to hands exploring my torso
my flat smooth chest no longer breasts

inhaling exhaling proudly satisfied and
yet I don’t get it that surgery     I do not

choose surgery I do not elect it fearing
instead the scalpels needles anesthesia

I wonder was it the tonsillectomy I did
not need, elective surgery I didn’t elect

at 4 when I didn’t get a vote or was it
that rhinoplasty at 17 against my will

still no vote no voice my body bones
and skin I had in the game no control

like my uncle Stanley punctured at 42
by drains tubes liquid in and liquid out

emaciated once handsome stud I loved
visiting him that last hospital time that

could have done it But the lump under
my arm in my armpit (even my lymph

nodes avoid my breasts) so scary one
doctor calls another for a favor to see

me See them today it’s important
please and I go and they poke

and avert their eyes frown prod
order the MRI ASAP as I dress

recalling all those times I begged
god please don’t give me cancer

don’t make it cancer anything
but cancer but if I must cancer

god, please breast cancer then
radical bilateral removal   not

elective but medically mandated
dissolution solution my problem

But I skirt death again the tests show
the lump is just some something acting

up inside me, a minor revolt I need no
surgery so I won’t get surgery and I live

on in the body I was mistakenly wrapped
inside Unwanted gift to myself I remain

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WHEN I CAME OUT TO YOU

When I bit Barbie’s head off, when I stole Jim’s racecar
pajamas, wearing them underneath. My baseball cap
seemingly surgically attached from kindergarten
through college I waged war whenever asked about

wearing tops on bathing suits. When I swigged Sprite,
imitating you drinking Heineken, emulating you
wiping the drips with my sleeve instead of napkin.
I wore a sweatshirt over two t-shirts both always stained

(one from mustard the other blood.) Hating you
teasing me, saying I wanted to marry Joe Namath—
yeah, no. I wanted to be Joe Namath and you knew it.
When I said call me “Sport” instead of “sweetheart,”

shoving my hands deep in my pockets, practicing spitting,
knuckle-cracking, peeing while standing. Toothpick in mouth,
sticking out, like a thug or a gangster. All those times begging
through a payphone for authentic cowboy boots, begging

for thick brown leather belts pleading for
LL Bean Black Watch plaid flannel, desperate
for a men’s navy blazer— my holy grail—
the secret inside pockets where I’d conceal

a pocketknife, lighter, playing cards, marbles,
string. I used to write you from my bunk in camp,
with a flashlight write asking for a men’s 10-speed,
GI Joes, sling shots, boxing gloves, Daisy Rifle,

boomerang, chemistry sets, erector sets,
a set of real walkie talkies to communicate
clearly, hoping I could be understood. I’d shave
my face stealing shaving cream you left behind,

slapping on your old aftershave, imagining
your big sandpaper hands bookending my face.
I’d thank grandpa whenever he’d chuckle at me
saying, “You could pass for a starting linebacker!” “You

definitely walk like Bucky Dent” said Uncle Stanley. My favorite
however, remains, “You move like a bull in a china shop”—
which mom said a lot, between her cigarette puffs describing me
to myself, forever making zero sense. After you left her,

leaving me too, alone fishing around in the dark for loose quarters,
dimes, nickels I’d save up, never spending. Your remnants, I saved
in this empty cigar box I hid under my bed. Keeping it wrapped in
tin foil, dropping it on your blanket in the end, coming out to you.

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CARE NOTE: Suicidal Ideation

EXIT STRATEGY

The very first time I consider ending
my life                                I am four. Me
and my brother are permitted a walk

after dinner                      (us leaving only
after folding our napkins and politely
requesting,                        may I be

excused?) to explore resort terrain
in places                            like Acapulco—
places that put jealous faces on teachers

when we go                       back wearing tans,
delivering show-and-tell trinkets like leftover
pesos                                  and piñatas. We skip,

hop on one leg run fast along pristine paths
snaking                              around spa buildings,
tennis courts, giant swimming pools. We

impersonate                      a tightrope act, balancing
along floating docks yachts cling to by rope.
I stick                                 with my brother, older

by five years he is constantly checking his glow-
in-the-dark                        Timex, deciding when
to turn back. This one night is different: I’m not

excused                              to accompany my brother
on a walk. I’m excused instead to head to the ladies
room                                   (I only call it that to her—

to my mother or she won’t allow me my exit)
I never use                         that word otherwise
and never ever enter doors saying it. Instead,



I slip                                  into mens rooms or when on
vacations like this I’ll use those bathrooms marked
rest                                     room next to the pool. Coming

back, I hear my brother whistling to himself, so I go
quietly                               find him. BOO! I yell so
he jumps laughs chases me and I run then hide

behind                               a tree. He is better at pretty
much everything, except not at hide-and-seek, or jax,
or red-light-                      green-light 1 – 2 – 3 or

kickball or rope climbing. And if I hold my breath
when I hide,                      he gives up, yelling, Come out!
Come out! Wherever you are! without ever finding

me. This night                   after he yells come out I reappear,
begging for one more time so he covers both eyes and counts.
I take off,                            running on grass instead of cement

so my patent leather shoes go silent. I head to the Pro Shop—
darkened                            and closed at night— the headless
mannequins in tennis outfits attract but also spook me so

I try to look /                      not look and I squint a bit and zoom
upstairs to the second level— open air, a canopy top and heavy
chairs jumbled                    like cutlery thrown down a staircase

by folks dragging them into odd positions to watch tennis
matches                                on the courts below. Ready or not here
I come shouts my brother, peeling hands from his eyes, walking

looking                                 behind trees, trying his hardest but not
even coming close to finding me. From my perch I see him
in a way                                I rarely can— tippy top of his head



where his part divides his hair. So neat looking— impossibly
hard straight-                       line side part like he used a ruler. I see
his Timex glowing (he wears it outside his shirt cinching tight

his sleeve                               like a belt around a slim waist) super
unmanly my father says… Except my brother doesn’t care
when anyone                         says stuff like that, simply preferring

not moving his sleeve out of the way to reveal time.
My eyes                                 drool seeing the tops of his loafers
too— perfect shiny brown penny loafers I want to possess

so badly.                                 Instead of pennies I’d put pesos inside
those slots, but my mother says maybe to me getting a pair after
I outgrow                                shoes I wear and hate. Pretty much wanting

everything my brother has and pretty much getting none of it.
Except if                                 his Timex breaks he’ll get another, and
I’m promised his broken one. Why do you want a broken watch

not able                                  to tell time? Leni asks. It won’t matter
I tell Leni because I can’t tell time, I say. Really, I just want
to feel                                    the tight band squeeze my skin— feel

the burning metal heated by sun like what happens when I let
my teaspoon                          soak in hot tea— I use it under the table
to burn my hand, singeing me a little, leaving a mark behind

on my palm                           like a real tattoo like Popeye has. I don’t
like Popeye, but I like sailor uniforms a lot— I like I’m Popeye
the sailor man                       I’m Popeye the sailor man… that song

I hum to myself whenever I’m eating Alpha Bits or Apple Jacks.
I think it’s crazy                    I’m not allowed anything basically
every other kid gets to do, and yet I can make myself breakfast



from cereals                           no other kid ever gets to eat. Sugar
I appreciate but it can’t stop me thinking about suicide. Not this
very first time                        on this vacation in Acapulco— while I’m

playing hide-and-seek with my brother I hear screaming,
Jimmy!                                  It’s my mother calling him Jimmy!
She just keeps screaming until he pops up like toast popping

out from                                the toaster— then he jumps to attention
like my GI Joe saluting Yes? My mother, still screaming, Have
you seen                                that sister of yours? My brother’s head

darts side to side like a pinball desperate trying to discern
from where                           her voice is screaming. From my perch
I see her smoke first, clouding above tall hedges quickly

moving                                  in our direction. Peering over the railing
to the tennis court below I know if I jump, I won’t
                                                bounce

                            like a
tennis
              ball,

or even                                 like a racquet hurled hard at the rubber
surface by older kids getting mad during lessons. I know
I will die                              quickly— upon impact, leaving my body

lying in a jumble like on CSI before the sheet covers the corpse
I imagine                             my blood spreading outwards, a fat puddle
all around me like red wine infecting a cocktail napkin when

the glass                               gets over-filled. I imagine my mother, still
smoking, looking down at me. Would she touch me? I wonder,
see if I                                  have any life left in me? I decide she wouldn’t—



instead, she’ll have my father lift me up and carry me—
my corpse—                        away to where? Where will my body be
kept until vacation ends and we all go home for my funeral? Why

I don’t                                  jump this night doesn’t matter. What matters
is I think something I can never unthink. That matters a great deal
to me.                                  Even if I didn’t think about dying more

than other kids growing up in unhappy families, I now knew
something—                       I now held the power to control one perfect thing
in my life— even if it ended up becoming the last thing ever in my life.

Now armed,                        I was a fire fighter commanding infinite water
extinguishing violent flames. Later, while catching hell from my mother
I pretend-                            fall asleep amidst screaming and my heart

pounding like it does when I’m in trouble. Except now, cushioning
my heart                             beats as a piano damper pedal muffles sound,
floated this new, light, soft impossible freedom—

freedom                              to get away, for good.
That carried me off to sleep this night, an angel
cocooning                           me safely upwards.

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