A creek runs through Mint Hill,
through the heart of my home,
across my bedroom floor,
down the stairs,
and over the tile of our Ikea themed kitchen.

A creek runs through Mint Hill,
and the water flows with algae, crawdads,
spiders, sand,
wooden boats, baseballs,
piss, fecal matter,
and me,
and my friends,
and as we float on
we catch the sunlit eyes
of a disapproving aunt
watching as we swim by.

A creek runs through Mint Hill
and it ran red in July 
when I hopped a fence
in a single bound,
only for a picket to catch my t-shirt
and graze the small of my back


these occurrences became lessons in regeneration, 
in which I taught myself
to grow a second backbone
when my sides split open
and bite my tongue
till I’ve chipped my teeth.

The creek has now dried
but I am still sopping wet.
a baby girl
baptized at birth
in boiling bathwater.

I always ran home the long way
and locked myself in time sleep
within the bedroom closet
where I forgot how to breathe.

That vacuum of that house,
on the days where I was conscious,
could seem wholly, awfully beautiful.
especially amongst the call of warblers
echoing out
from where a creek once ran through Mint Hill.

autogenics (an adventure)

Breathe, star child; we will leave Jupiter
this gaseous coagula, and migrate to Brighton

like poisoned pigeons who have quit carrying
the souls of those that smear dysphoria blue

across epileptic bodies. Planted in a soil of worms
this place creeps in gardens of boys and girls, 

mildewy, an acidic mass seduction, a juicery
that only blends strawberry. This was our honeymoon suite.

Cry love; it’s okay. Every drop is a kick in their teeth,
an angelic shattering. Their tongues are running down their throats.

Ode to an Ever-Present Osprey

Crash past the ripple, Osprey,
of the ocean’s shallows,
On shore or wake, you prepare
to strike, then plunge through
the surface. Belly up!
All fish surrender, 
honored to be chosen; 
to be picked and 
peeled, made flayed,
impeccable flesh.
At night, after you’ve
blessed the beaches,
you wait above me
on a lamp post.
We hold on for 
daylight together,
and for me
to keel over
and divebomb beyond you.

Upstate Acts of Indecency

Albany to Poughkeepsie, all
breaks apart across Amtrak rails.
Cauliflower vapors and
dirges for those swallowed whole
erupt, halting
forward progress.
Guess that means another month
holed up in Johnstown? Or maybe it’s
indefinite. I’m not
jealous of those caught in the fissure.
Keep me contained, stranded,
leave me without a line.
Messes are made better in private.
No one is looking, so now I can
out myself to the Amish, because who are their
people going to tell? Still, I’ll train with
quarterstaffs, hone my
reflexes, learn to stand
sulfur, because someday 
those tracks will heal.
Ubu Roi and others will in-
-vade the village
without warning. I’ll commit
xenocide to escape, and after that
you will see me again with
zilch to prove.


I won’t notice the mold until morning.
For now, it is only a coverless mass,
pages of a scum manifesto, a warning 
ignored when running late for class.

For now, it is only a coverless mass,
by a plastic trapped mattress and pillow
ignored when running late for class.
I’m bare, changing by the window

by a plastic trapped mattress and pillow
stitched together by a restless stare.
I’m bare, changing by the window,
stripped down with nothing to wear.

Stitched together by a restless stare,
I make people appear in empty corners
stripped down with nothing to wear,
all weeping, howling, joyous mourners.

I make people appear in empty corners,
tie together water bags, for adorning
all weeping, howling, joyous mourners.
I won’t notice the mold until morning.

Love Ghazal from a Mummified Crocodile

There was a beetle on your head like a hair clip, bouncin’, lookin’ down on us packin’ eggs
for our salads. Fry ‘em on the skillet, crisp, golden. And you looked beauteous crackin’ eggs.

There’s bone sand in my nose from when it poured on Ocean Isle, while you made breakfast
in a tropical depression, winds kickin’, blowin’ on soggy legs, our lips just smackin’ eggs.

I can hear an old seagull trippin’ over herself for fries doused in vinegar, partially charred.
She’s got a backwards bendin’ wing, googly eyes, half a left leg. She’s leakin’ puss, lackin’ eggs.

I don’t see much water without you. I’m parched, relyin’ on the tap, that liquid lead, with bitters,
and wildberries. It’s ambrosia to go, a mist, makin’ me think I’m an incubus, ransackin’ eggs.

You were too patient. Like Sarah, seraphim. My head’s all rings, no hearin’, even when I snap.
I am sean as a way of being, all call and response with myself. I forget us, start stackin’ eggs.


Dear Kelsey, 

Your lamp started flashing, accosting me, as soon as I took out my suitcase today. I’ve never understood his words; you acquired him while studying abroad at that Butoh studio in Prague. I found it odd that you had to go so far away for a dance class, or that there were enough people practicing Butoh in Prague to compose a collective. However, you made it seem normal at the time. That’s a talent of yours, the way you turn anything out of the ordinary possible.

Anyway, he wouldn’t shut the fuck up. The stained glass shade kept turning ‘round and ‘round,  rocking his copper base back and ford. He had a metallic vibration in his voice, which he used to call me what I assume to be every Czech expletive he could conceive of. I removed his bulb. The image of nativity on him went dark, and I was reminded of how odd he looked in a room with an otherwise sterile, off-white coloration.

Then, with lamp dulled and muttering, I heard the whole house murmur, everything talking over each other. Your unwashed laundry called me a bitch. I would usually wash it out on Thursdays, but the smell was too much that last time. It reminded me of the weeks before you got into grad school, when you wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t talk, just wait and eat and at times stare at me. You thought I hadn’t noticed, but all your senses turn to touch with me. I always knew when you were looking, like a pinch at the base of my skull. 

My clothes went foul a while ago. My undershirts wanted to smother me.


Suddenly, I’m shot back to before. It’s loud, people loud, loud and sweaty and anxious. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m anxious, alone and anxious. I keep drinking, and then I can’t stop falling. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know where to go. A friend of a friend had invited me to this six-story walk up, a party where I know noone and I don’t know anything. I hear myself falling, against the wall, and I hear the wall squirm.


The noise of your world collection grew louder as I packed. The drapes were confused by why I hadn’t left earlier, months before now. The carpet was thrilled to see me go after all the wine stains, and your walls agreed. There was still a hole next to the mirror by the bedroom door, and it had assumed that I would patch it at some point. There were a lot of dents I had neglected to acknowledge over the years, so I understand the resentment.

Then there were the bookshelves, one in the bedroom next to the window and one by the front door, filled with stuff you’d never read because you had life to live. You were just buying the time it would take to read them, and the journals that were tucked away fulfilled a similar purpose, never to be filled. I don’t read, but I leafed through them occasionally. Sometimes you would read to me from a book you loved, and I loved those stories because they were then inextricably part of your voice.

It started to dawn on me, while I gathered my socks, how little I owned. I found a pair of gloves you bought me last summer on sale at Ollie’s, a painting I had made for a friend that I hadn’t seen since some distant August. I found headbands, t-shirts, 3 black dresses, a toothbrush, some other assorted toiletries, and a shoe box with unworn heels. That’s all. I borrowed the rest from you.

I zipped up the suitcase as best I could, as broken as it was from your trips and excursions. You go everywhere, across every continent, you’re trilingual, you want to see everything once. You let me travel with you from a safe distance, only through the stories you’d bring back, and the new things acquired with new voices. You kept them all in storage, with me, and they were to be preserved. Every memory should have stayed perfectly still, never faded, unblemished.


“Jesus, look, this girl is fucked out of her mind.”

“Who brought her?”

“God she smells, like, not just vomit smell but, like, something gamey.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Like something bloody or feral.”

“Maybe she just wandered in.”

“What should we do with her?”


I dragged out the suitcase from the bedroom while the bedroom told me to fuck off and die a better death. Their disdain repelled me, though if I were to look back on our bed I know I would have slipped back in. She had gone silent, frozen from the night my undershirts were soiled. I shut the door.

The living room was nearly empty. People had been over for the past few months taking things. Many objects seemed relieved in this, wanting to be anywhere but with me. The jade elephants had happily gone to your mother’s, the coats and sweaters to your sister’s, your Wheel of Time collection to Aunt Carol. Distant cousins and cousins of cousins came by and took the rest. 

I thought again about how little I owned, about all your totems, your conquests, your journeys. The four-foot fan you bought in Fukuoka, the grandfather clock you lugged home from Vienna, all the drums and flutes and other instruments you did not know how to play. And you had me, and I was always worried about how I stood in comparison to such wonders.

I put the suitcase down in the center of the living room and sat next to it. I looked at the exit, behind me toward the kitchen. It looked as though it had been through the most intensive bleaching process imaginable. I’m not sure why some rooms were easier to clean out than others. I never cooked, so I don’t have a connection to that place like you do.

“I’ll miss you.”

I look across the room. All else stilled. It was the loveseat. Deflated, solemn, she became shallow and breathy.

“I’ve been missing you.”


I smell store bought muffins and coffee. The light peeks in through the skylight, and I’m curled up in fetal position with a Winnie the Pooh blanket. The loveseat is newish, it is soft and beige, it is supportive. I could sleep here all day. I could get used to this.

She enters from the kitchen barefoot in a black hoodie with Jack Daniels printed in white across her chest. She’s smirking at me like she’s waiting to ask me to do something for her.

“Do you like poppyseeds?”

“When there’s lemon involved, yeah. Is that what those are?” I say.

“Mhmm, I ran out an hour ago to grab them.”

“That’s so sweet.”

I start to peel myself from slumber.

“Don’t even think about it,”she says,”I’ll be bringing them out. I just wanted to make sure you were awake. Looks like I caught you at just the right time.”

She pats me on the hand that holds the blanket by my chin. She must have had her muffin already; she smells like citrus and sugar and menthol. Then she’s gone.

I close my eyes and settle back in.


“You haven’t slept out here in a long time,” said the loveseat.

“Why would I choose you over a mattress?”

The love seat sank some more.

“It’s not a logical thing. It’s just, y’know, you weren’t the only one receding. And isn’t the frame broken?”

“How do you know that?”

“I heard her last week. After she found you…”

The loveseat trailed off. Non confrontational as always.

“You can comfort her when she gets back from her world tour,” I said, 

“What are you talking about?”

I became statuesque.

“Is it just easier to pass if you think she’s away only for a little while? As if she abandoned you?”

“She’s only gone on vacation. Without me. Again.”

I breathe in, sharp.

“And she’ll come back here. You’re a part of her, you know that.”

“You people aren’t your decorations, not the pieces like me.”


It’s 5 pm. I’m in her bed this time.

 It’s been six months. At a certain point I had to tell her that I had nowhere else to go, that I could not trust myself. There she is, taking me in, sitting up, cross legged in front of me.

“How long have you known?”

“A little after I fell in your living room for the first time,” I said, “maybe since before then. I’ve always been good at hiding it, even from myself.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were a stranger at the time. And when I got to know you…”

She looks not in my eyes but at my forehead. She kisses the temple, rests her head on mine.

“Please try not to be so proud again.”

“It’s not out of pride.”

“Then just practice asking for help,” she whispers, “you’ve got someone on your side.”

I don’t know what to say. I let her kiss me more.


I stood up, ready to go, but I went too fast. I collapsed, catching myself on the side of the loveseat for support.

“Woah. Here, take a moment.”

She still felt warm. She was not as firm as before, but she felt just as soft.

“You smell like honey,” I say.


I’m in the doorway. It’s 6 am.

She’s out somewhere, and I’m back home. Her home, not mine.

I don’t own anything. I pull everything that isn’t mine from the cabinets. That is everything there is.

I’m slurring, and I begin to hear your home try to save me. 

You’re not here. What this place thinks is bullshit if you’re not with me to tell me I can trust it. That I can trust myself.

I love you. I love the way the way the way you make me feel and the way Tito’s hits the roof of my mouth and how it is like water that turns to tears the minute you drink it.


I was curled up on our loveseat.

“I can’t stay here anymore.”

“You can’t stay anywhere.”

“Nowhere must be better.”

“Nowhere doesn’t mean sleep, darling. Nowhere is a decision you make. It means you want to leave everything behind.”


There isn’t anything to replace me with, I know, and my head is spinning. It’s like before, I am spread out everywhere. The wall squirms, the floor squirms, my feet shatter, and my head balloons, pops, goes limp, rests upon my shoulders.


I gave way to the cushion. I sank into our place, your place, to somewhere I cannot be found. That suitcase is still there right next to the loveseat, next to me, where I wrap myself in Winnie the Pooh again. 


“what did you do what did you do

what what nonononononodon’tyoufeelme

 come on breathe say something.”


When are you coming home?



TranScriptures: Waiting to Begin (in Life and Death)

Once when I was in high school, my class was assigned a project wherein we had to plan our own funerals. We needed to decide what we would be remembered for, how our eulogy would be delivered, and what song would be played in the background (presumably over a slideshow of us brimming with potential life). I don’t remember what class this was for, or why it was assigned, but I got really into it. Especially in regards to my song choice, which was “Awaiting You” from the song cycle* Myths and Hymns by Adam Guettel (performed immaculately by Billy Porter). It is a heart wrenching plea for God to make himself known, for Him to return to man and care for him. However, God does not come, and the actor is left assuring God that he will “still be standing here awaiting you”.

Paired with this selection, I had a whole sermon written talking about Habakkuk, the minor prophet (whose book is a scant three chapters long). This book, at least in some regard, is about waiting as well. The waiting that we feel as mortals whose lives are short, though our suffering may be long. Habakkuk is unique in the way he openly questions the workings of God upon the world. Young me, still very closeted, was struck by these passages. Even though the doubt expressed is eventually replaced by fervent faith, this book leaves room for those who question the Lord in his kingdom.

I believe that the Christian God is one that actually likes it when we mess with what’s perceived as the world’s order, or at the very least challenge it. In the context of a funeral, I was trying to find a way in which my own doubting self could be redeemed. In truth, however, it is by doubt and rebellion that the greatest stories of faith are told. Is the prodigal son loved in spite of his defiance or because of it? We as queer people are told that we are “unnatural” (despite scientific evidence proving otherwise). Still, even if that were true, I believe that the building of a trans identity can be innately spiritual work. The importance of Habakkuk, of “Awaiting You”, is not the waiting itself. It is in the questioning we are realized, as our being then becomes a collaboration with the divine.

Oh Lord, how long shall I cry and You will not hear?
– Habakkuk 1:2 (NKJV)

NOTE: Thank you all for your responses to this project! Though I am still deciding on how I want this work to evolve, I thought I’d start with a subject that was already near and dear to my heart. I would love to hear your thoughts and criticism. Much love to you and your community, wherever it may be.

*A song cycle is, in musical theater, your standard musical performance without the burden of “plot” or “character development”.

Higher Powers

You tell me that you don’t exist without
my telling you to stay beneath my nails
that clack upon the pollen laden floor
till finger skin and vein are beat to blood,
into a mush of dust and Moscow mule.
I see you pool around my broken skull
made manifest by falling through the stairs.
You’re soaking me, transparent in the sun.
You taste of citrus salt, a Windex mix
of cleanliness that bleached my skeleton
when you ran down my brain stem’s base, became
a curvature of crooked spinal cords.
Now I remember how to tie my shoes.
I miss you helping me to forget that.