Cleaning Out the Closet in My Childhood Bedroom, Where I Spent Most of My Seventh Grade Year-

I hid the photos of my father on the top

Shelf, behind a crab hat and embroidered

Bandanas. In one picture

I press my cheek to his like I could

Transfer my baby fat and pull the sallow

From his face.

Somewhere behind the old polaroids-

dad in cowboy boots and camo, him holding His father's Bible, him, looking like a candle that will never go out.

I find his old City on a Hill t-shirt, and

Pretend that if I put it on, it'd still go

Down to my knees.

When I was in seventh grade, I spent more

Time in that physical, metophorical closet

Then I did around him.

And now his abscene

Leaves me wondering, if

He could smell the boyhood on me,

Like I could smell the pot

Seeping into the fabric seats of his pickup.

I may have become his son, but I

Will always love him like a daughter. And I

Would easily give up this life if

He just got to be happy- and with a boy,

If he wanted.

In a dream I hear the impact of stones

being tossed at my window,

and my father-

aged thirteen, grey eyes filled with holy joy and michief, boyish face without sunspots, angel untouched by opioids.

My father is beckoning me outside, asking

if I want to go fishing in the river a mile or

so down the road.

I have to tear my eyes away. I can't save him

This time. It's already happening.

It already happened.

In a dream, he doesn't give me that lecture

On biblical sexuality, and neither does his

Dad.

When he tries to out-scream his queerness,

Sobriety is louder.

How many nights did I spend praying

crying sobbing begging talking confessing

Praying

To no one and nothing?

(god didn't forgive me)

I hope someday Shame asks me for mercy,

And I don't give it to them.

I deserve that.

(there was nothing to forgive)

Earth's Cycles-

the sun beats heavy and the ice thaws to

half moon lillies blooming in the yard; shut

me up with your hand under my shirt.

i've worked at the local art museum longer

than i've loved you, and just now i'm

realizing

that the smell of oil paint on my sweaters is

impossible to get out.

kiss me in the video room with the drums

pulsing.

i've held a gay little jumpsuit in my hands

and thought about safewords.

i've held polaroid pieces of upstate new york.

i've held tiny red threads in my fingertips

and have dragged them up to a boy's pinkie

like a dagger.

strip off the artists' black and pin me

gently onto the exhibitions.

the moon is finally coming and coming

and the freaks are back out glittering like

fairies.

do you know how it feels to lose your breath

seeing andromeda sparkle

in your other's eyes?

i want it to feel like that-

a painting of a night sky.

somewhere between the earth's cycles and

locking up museums things start slotting

into place. I want it bad because stars and

artwork both draw the prettiest gasps out of

you.

Heavily inspired by @two-bees-poetry, a poem I wrote about having an addict dad. I don't know if I did that format right, but oh well.

Eulogy for the Sound of Planets-

I won't make a metaphor of constellations. But if I die, string me up in them. If I live, memorialize me in your ribcage. To be yours is to be something greater than myself. Every displaced tear with my back in the grass; I believe in God less and science more each day. Like how science says my body is stardust, and your microbiome is in my gums. Through me, you'll live forever. Though me, the spark of joy from skin-to-skin is eternal. Today, I am a room of astrophysicists learning their funding has been pulled. Science says your ghost does not inhabit my bedroom. I'll try to guess your star sign the first time we talk. NASA will retire the ISS, but will release secret recordings of the planets in its wake. Jupiter wheezes with each rotation. Pluto, the lonliest planet, somehow sounds like it's laughing. I still look for you in every supernova. The recordings of Mars are lost, but I can still hear it in every moving box. I ask god where I can see you again and she says the room of astrophysicists. You: the sum of every person i've loved or grieved. Mars is the angriest planet but it sobs the loudest. The angriest planet says it's time for me to let go.

superbowl 2025-

they've got a weed tint to their words as

i settle over their lap and try to turn the

music of their breath up. my brain stutters

like the walls of jericho crashing and I

swallow my last miracle from the bottom of

a wine glass. i've split myself open enough

times to know how to carve a space for

them in my soul. when being vulnerable isn't

enough and i've got to wear them like a

hoodie. they've got curls like lucifer and

hands like a greek myth. they've got a

smile like a northern sunset. they've got a

voice like van gogh's roses rooting in the

base of my spine. they rest their legs on

mine like a unicorn and my body is a

tapestry to immortalize. on top, the world

glows seedy amber and i nearly sob in

adoration. your warmth, my jeans; your

dorm or the library? we try not to get sick of

cuddling but stay glued to each other's

side. we don't say goodbye but we do say

"see you later," and i yearn like oscar wilde

the moment they aren't there. all sensual

and bad metaphors but with the purest

intentions.

the aftermath-

weed tastes like champange in the grey

morning light, sun flicking through curtains

and my hair a halo on sweaty pillows.

bones dense in the aftermath

of college kids having highschool parties,

from standing on my tiptoes all night to be

seen. drunk drag and drunker drag racing.

wasted a tuesday night on someone who

wraps sage like a blunt and doesn't know

the difference between amethyst and

auralite. which in itself isn't an issue,

but it does tell me he doesn't listen. hell is

a locked bedroom door and a house party.

hell is the house not even having a dog to

escape to. weed tastes like

how bad i want a warm mouth on mine and

butterflies in my stomach. dizzy

from the glitter and polaroid flashes.

low lights, long hair, and hands on my hips

is the recipe to turn me sixteen again.

the forecast is as unforgiving as the ice

under tires, street racing back to the iron

range or to bar hop across the bridge-

negative twenty degrees and

my blood runs as cold as the outside when

i wake up to him pressed against me,

fingers leaving party tattoos in their wake.

who even passed me this blunt, who's keys

are sparkling in the lamplight, who's hand

is gripping my waist like a lifeline. my limbs

tangled like this in bed is

like being sixteen again, too.

he grabs my chest

like he prayed for it, and

there's ash in my hair like confetti and

mascara on my cheeks like a bad porno.

i wish this was a poem but it's just

the aftermath of greened out ramblings on

a public bus and forgetting to photograph

the bruises.

i wish this was a healed wound but it's just

the aftermath of the aftermath of

the aftermath.

when i say i want a cowboy-

i really mean i want a love that's wild and queer and fucks up my hair. i mean that in summer, i want to spend our time laying in the blazing star hills and blowing like a smokestack through cards, guitar strings, and canabis blossoms. i want to kiss them and it to taste like hemp and lemonade, warm like a horse's flank against my lips. but i'd settle for a cowboy buckle and a lasso pulled tight against my wrists, being unable to get through brokeback mountain because they were too busy shoving their tongue in my mouth. loving them slow like a drip of saliva from soft lips thick with drawl. take me where the cars can't go. where the midwest fades to sunbleached billboards and singing crickets. unstable tents with even more unstable fires and stolen corn from the farm behind my house. out there in the wild bluestem prairies, newspaper is just kindling, not an omen. i woke up this morning in a cold sweat thinking about drones and microplastics; i used their flannel as a pillowcase and went back to bed. if they don't smell like sweat and hope i don't want them. if the government says that guinness, butter, sugar, all the little things that make life livable will kill me, i at least want to die by a lover. i'd love them like i'm lawless because soon i'll be illegal.

Recipe For a Good Christmas Eve

Set the temperature of the house to just

Under sixty degrees farenheit, warm enough

That the windows won't freeze shut and cold

Enough that you won't have to pay electric.

Fingertips pink,

Then white, under the frigid air of your

Bedroom, knowing

Your mom's hands look the same. Knuckles

White on the steering wheel. Cheeks pink

From the wine.

Mix up your usual conversations and get-

A damn sense of humor for once, I mean,

God, have you been this serious your whole

Life? I remember you used to find me funny.

Now you slink off to the back porch, feeding

Strays and building birdhouses and I haven't

Seen you smile since you turned sixteen.

From long drives to look at

Christmas lights and the gold reflecting

Off the windshield; you've come to

Understand how deer get stuck

In the headlights. You should

Burn your hair off at candlelight vigil,

You should

Set everything ablaze in holy retribution,

You hope

Someone will intervine on your behalf and

Drag brittle bones off the road.

Follow instructions to a T. Don't go

Off the trail to the ditch you nearly

Froze to death in or weave between

Rows of Balsam fir to the place you

Buried your first sour jar. Don't laugh

With fangs showing or shake the snow out

Your hair like a dog, for god's sake-

Warm up under blankets and Bake

Yoursef with stolen weed. Under Geminids

And Ursids and Auroa Borealis, you

Remember how you used to stay up late

Watching for shooting stars each

Christmas Eve. Between blood shot eyes

And Bloody Mary's you think

You can see the ghost of Christmas Past

Walk barefoot across your lawn.

This Holiday Season, you want

Commercials to be half as long and

The beer cooler to be anywhere but

The basement. To not have to break up

Anymore fights until

New Years wipes the slate clean. You want

Dutch babies and dill latkes like

Mama used to make before you came out:

When you were a little girl

And still easy to love.

My Stepbrother Quit Last Month so Who's Going on the Cousin Walk With Me?-

Blink and it's December, and the evergreens

Are covered in a thin layer of frost, ice

Caked on each needle like the cold

Sticks the mess of snot and salt you call

Grief to your face. Blink and

All your childhood pets have died. But the

Goosedown blanket on your bed

Still smells like your Dog's fur.

You scattered her ashes in the

Creek eons ago, but here she is. Imbedded

In the very fibers of your house.

And the creek's frozen over by now,

Minnows suspended in the ice mid stroke. Winter makes everything listless; The empty

Nests and broken branches littering

The driveway, to the old firepit you

Used to tell ghost stories around.

These days, you're bracing the usual

Midwestern smoke and storms to chase after

A pipe dream of an education. And any

Whimsy you used to have got left in

The snow angels decorating the front yard.

You're not a kid anymore, you've got

To remember that. You hold your braid

Like it's tethering you to Earth and

Your body relaxes.

Blink and it's December, and the black ice

Covers every road like insulation.

The plows aren't paid enough to ever reach

Your township. You know you're home

When it smells like smoked fish and

Blue salt always spread too thin to thaw.

Your Grandma isn't in the hospital yet.

And you haven't transitioned so she still

Remembers you. But blink and

It'll be over.

Going to Minnesota

Took the highway from I-35 to hell,

Guns blazing like firecrackers in the

Low midwestern light. This snow

Is a damn health hazzard, just

Bright enough that headlights bouncing off it

Look like beacons to houses with

Broken boilers and ice caked windows.

I don't want to spend another eternity in these streets,

Kissing the pavement for sparing my life this long.

Deer with broken spines litter the ditches like

Glitter, mouths still open. Snowbanks try

To carve out hollows in themselves, begging

Something, anything, to come be alive in them.

A hometown is only as cold as the people in it.

They say

The northshore is where humanity stops and

The arctic begins.

The person down the other end of the bottle asks

Me for my biggest regret.

It's this:

That every middle school plan to catch a greyhound,

Every morning I cried until the tears froze to my cheeks,

Being fourteen and buried to my chest in ice,

That cutting off my braid didn't wash the

Iron Range off of me.

It's under my nails, in every rounded vowel,

In the grey-green held in my irises. Every

Cruelty said like a kiss.

I white-knuckle mineral cliffs chasing the ghost of

My old face.

Oh, old Superior, please don't take my

Wanting to disappear as permission.

Old tunnels to the iron mines, please- I want

To come out of this whole.

If there is a shot at the end of this tunnel

I'll swallow it.

If there is a light at the end of this tunnel

I'll swallow it.

I'm Drunk on Lychee and Your Voice Tastes Like Starlight-

For every night I've spent cursing the ghosts in my ribcage. For every shooting star I was too shy to wish on. For every lipstick stain I couldn't get off your shoulder. For every time I got home smelling like Old Spice and Texan Sun. For every time you've left me too stunned to speak. For every curly hair I've ever found on my shirt. For every inch of your skin I've held in my teeth. For every drop of beer turning my stepdad mean. For every time you laid dead weight in my arms. For the feeling of your palms against my own. For every shot I couldn't convince you to take with me. For seeing my doodles kissing your wrist. For every cup of tea like a written confession in my hands. For every house I'll carve a space for you in. I see you I know you and I love you. My veins are thrumming with it. I love you I love you I love you I love-

Not Even This

i. He looks at you like you’re something holy, despite finding you with clouded eyes, half asleep in the library. Despite the yellow fluorescence turning the hollow parts of your cheeks into semicolons. In fact, you think he may have woken you up in the first place; by gently kissing the papercuts lining your wrists and murmuring your name like a prayer until you forgot the guilt academia gives you.

ii. Sometimes he’ll read a chapter from your textbook out loud to you, and it takes the rawness of the content off your shoulders. This day in history, Amsterdam snuffed out the socialists like an American Politician’s breath blowing birthday candles. This day nineteen years ago, you were brought into this world with nothing but a crown of Irish curls and a prayer. You swear his voice reading the date over and over still sounds like bullets.

iii. You're trying to build a colosseum of knowledge around yourself like it could save you. History can't shoot your Achilles Heel if you make it your bitch. One of these days, you’ll tell him how much you hate working on your birthday. But today is not that day, and the plate of cut fruit he brings you splits the red sea of words you're drowning in.

iv. And you hate yourself for it, the undercut of self-loathing in every flirtatious comment you toss his direction. You want his cheeks to flush under the warmth of your hands or your lips, but you run out of kisses before he runs out of ways to breathe your name.

v. When he curls into you, this time you cup his face like it's something sacred. Like it's the answer to every question burning under your tongue. You’ve loved him long enough that the ancient wounds of abandonment have faded into keloids- hieroglyphics on a tomb that’ll never be opened again. You know nothing, NOTHING could scare him away now, not even this.

Old Enough-

Came out of the womb/Fists curled and screaming/Little red face scrunched up in the white light./Foreshadowing to the nth degree./Body soft enough to be young./Sharp shrieking anger like a banshee and a head of Irish curls./Born old enough for your emergency contact to be the emergency/Or old enough to taste acetaminophen on your breath./The first time you watch a X-rated movie/You’ll cry yourself to sleep and won’t know why,/The first time you masturbate to the sight of a pretty trans boy you’ll try to take your life during sub-drop./Baby never smelt like Johnson’s lotion, just/Jack Daniels and cigarette ash./Fifteen the first time you asked a man to put one out on you./Sixteen and realizing being called pretty boy raises goosebumps like worship music,/Feeling slick and wild under the red midwest Sun./Growing up like a humiliation ritual with no safeword./Queer and/There’s no metaphor for that, just being seventeen the first time you/Took a smoke break from his parted lips/And seconds old when they pulled you up off the hospital bed still rosy and roaring./Brought into this life knowing that it’d be spent starting riots./You’re not old enough to drink but old enough/For friends to be killed or kill themselves./Not yet prose but a/Poem.

Burnt Popcorn

I never misgender myself, Unless I’m standing in the kitchen with my mom,  Cooking popcorn a bit too long So it sits on my tongue with that bitter-salt-char Only the two of us can stand. 

When I was growing up,  The kitchen was small enough to call it A confessional booth, small enough,  To keep fathers and devils out of it,  Small enough, That male intrusion felt like sacrilege. 

One of these afternoons, I just know- I’ll come home to it expanded,  Rugs pushing neatly into the living room, Cupboards organized by ingredients  Instead of color. 

I’m not a woman, but part of me Will always be a little girl twisted  Up on the floor of the kitchen chewing Mango pits and getting caught underfoot.

Sometimes I see her in the reflection of clean pots and pans,  When I’m seasoning cast iron. I make tea and the loose lemongrass in Mom’s cup Forms her daughter’s face.

Did you have prophecies too, Mama? Or  Is that something you shed like a Second skin when you started going to that Fundie church for a boy with blue-grey eyes and A haunting grin? I want to know

If the ashes from his cigarette falling Onto your pregnant belly revealed the Spiteful bitch I’d become.

I used to identify as a girl, now,  I  identify as a witch and a bastard. I call myself things You’re too disgusted to utter out loud. 

But sometimes, I miss using your wooden spoons to burn popcorn The way we both like. I’d let you kick me off your counters  A thousand times if you’d just call me your son.

Dear Midwestern Daughter, Dear Midwestern Ghost.  One of these days I’ll hand you the dread I shouldered like Judas and teach You just how I earned this name.

Witches in Love

fall) bristles caressing the cuffed sleeves

of that beaten corduroy jacket, clinging

close enough that I grow jealous. the fall of a changing

village, streets bright with pops of orange. may these

changing leaves change me, into

a beast less hungry. I've heard whispers of phantoms, 

Or the things townsfolk call phantoms:

(Your laugh loud and echoing, enough that

stray cats come to investigate. 

Your sweet face scrunched in the autumn sun.)

winter) the slowness of love like a tear falling

down your cheek, kissing your jaw

with its warmth in the sharp snowy air.

-I'd take your warmth in my mouth if you

catch my drift- so long as you keep

those pretty lips praying. mom once said

if I am down on all fours

it better be for religion. the floor

creeks under the weight

of me shifting from knees to

palms; your hands ghost

over my hair like an Ouija board.

spring) it reminds me of spirits, which is to say, 

it reminds me of lying chest to chest in the shrubs, 

hearts beating like a beckoning call

for wraiths to rest in our skin. you

were focused on apparitions.

I was trying to make a worship of counting

each crease by your eyes when you smile,

each time your breath ghosted my ears.

everything ended in fours, so I

had to kiss you; four breaths in

like the hands on the dial, like the

number of books thrown off my shelf

by some energy stirring, wild and restless.

summer) the thing about the occult is once

you invite it in, it'll 

linger at every doorstep you know.

oh, soul of my damn spell work, tender as ever. 

oh, strawberry-kissed mouth.

oh, blooming summer flowers, spewing pollen over everything,

even our thighs where they meet. My

heart beat is so loud that it

could set a rhythm for us to turn

this flower field into a bedroom.