Poetry

A letter to queer ancestors

Queer ancestors. If I send for you, will you grant me more than preposition? If I beg you, will you leave me more than shattered disposition? They paint me a world, they tell me exactly what is true, but what of you? Truth feels like daggers in my stomach, the persistent thought, the one I say I'll give a month but I know I need no moment longer. WHO am I? 

Ancestors. I am far from the soil of Norway. Were you loved then? The queer ones? Do your bodies trace the mappings of every gay boy's soil? If I begin digging, will I unearth the prepositions you left for me?

Our story. Erased like floods with every casket. Like each beating heart found the affirmation, the exclamation, the declaration. And each blood afterwards starts again. Could I find you in my DNA? Is my preposition written in the stars, a cosmic trail that leads me to whatever queer answers you may have been brought to? 

I am bound. I am undone. I have never been written before. And yet I beg you to tell me the ending. 

Instead, I'll bow. Cross a grin and let my body love what it loves. I know you'll be at my back.

Still yet, lost friend

I dream of castle ruins and melted dew
the breadth of a past
long forgotten
shattering the present
like a persistent alarm.

Seraphim,
I hear your chant
like a war call
marching through the psyche
and delivering the knot you left undone.

Will you give chase if I run?
Will you weep if I sacrifice?
If I revisit this mourning dew
collapsed as
stolen bricks,
will the foundation be just as lost?

Tell me again no
Rip me again
my earnest compassion,
and one turn
two
three
or four more
around the tilt of the relentless sun
I will return -
renewed again
with compassion - 

A hollow chamber
echoing still,
where always I fill
with you.

Ablaze

Light shines off sax like radiant sun running off shadeless;
Keen keys, pearl and cool, like triggers on a heart’s gun;
Rhythmic rods like golden pipes of paradise’s gilded glades;
Needle springs like hinges and screws driving, driving down demon’s drag;
Metal mezzotint, imprinted and fixed like feathers on streamlined wings;
Circling cork like swollen sighs all leaded and leaking;
Side triggers like fingers so frozen and still;
Warm skin like sunshine where dank alleys see no glow;
Coruscating curves that dance like those daring women, all dark and arcane;
Subtle scrapes like those silent scars of the belligerent boys;
And still yet - that glow - ablaze from this
luminous sax, like the spark that sets the underworld on fire.