Mornings
coffe-stained fingertips 
my water-logeed copy of Big Sur 
how its pages breathe in
the wind 
with immense appetite

sometimes the sun 
barely creeps outside its hollow
it’s only a pinch of earth set ablaze

we’re all just bandaids and rain 
hiccups of radience
here and there 
braids of electric wire and orgasm

we stop and start 
like lizards
on grave stones

if I ever have a boy I would wash
his eyes with darkness 
so he is never afraid of it

1.
The drugs
are too easy to blame

It is amazing how
forgiving folks are
when you add
meth
cocaine
young 
stupid 
tripping so hard
my face was melting
into my lap 
to stories
of truly reprehensible
actions

It is disturbing how
forgiving I can be
of myself

2.
Heaven and
methamphetamine
share too many syllables
to not be related

20 years old
7 years since the inside of
a synagogue and the
only bright idea I had 
was how to hollow out
a light bulb so I could
freebase

This is the only way
a Jewish boy can
ever truly understand 
communion
The rock, the body
Light bulb, chalice
Smoke, His blood
Me, the new trinity:
altar boy/censer/hollow
holy ghost

3.
Jewish boys have
their own holy trinity:
God
Mother
Therapist
I have only shared the details
of my two sexual assaults
with God and several
hundred people
I don’t think my mother
could handle it and I
can’t afford a therapist anymore
that’s why I write/perform
I don’t ask for/give forgiveness
to my assaulters
just God, my mother
and myself

My former therapist
would understand

4.
I still listen to
albums older than
my sobriety

At 25 
you know only
bright eyed Oblivion
If you make it to 41
you take stock of
all the lessons
all the experiences
experiments/friends
collisions/turns taken
and still wonder if 
making it to now was
the smartest move
I can’t blame
the drugs anymore
or ignorance
or youth
my mother
or therapist

All I have left
is God and myself
and I can’t tell 
which one of us
is wrong

I have spent a thousand years
picking myself out of the middle of nowhere

on an empty highway clutching fistfuls 
of fireflies to my eyes clawing poppy

blossoms across a belly full of rabbits 
I dripped with peppercorns I salted

the earth as if that would make the mud 
easier to swallow I buried the creatures

with a pocket watch and a dead fish 
and mounds rose up the hills of my body

a congregation of sparrows sang like nightingales
as if that would bring me peace my ghost

is mad Ophelia babbling in swampflower 
poltergeisting the highways and waiting

for the next thud wooden dolls slapped 
out of my hands brings me walnut shells

to curl into like that could keep me safe 
from waking up again in the cheekbone curve

of a boy who does not know the difference 
between a raven and a writing desk between

I’m sorry and have some wild almonds 
love I picked these myself

you’ll have to kiss me to taste them

after Jacqui Germain

Tells me that I’ve spent enough time
antagonizing him, corrupting his divine
name, condemning the thinly veiled violence
in his bones.

He demands that I forgive
his unrelenting presence,
forbids me from saying all that I’ve learned

about him – like Man is the aftertaste of disgusted stares.

or Man comes alive when hardened fist meets pliant ribcage,
his laughter 
exposed
by the sudden crack.

or Man says my mouth is a broken levee, my voice
an unwelcome flood (softly) wearing down
the fang of him.

or I know there is something powerful about queer blood.
Why else would Man be drawn like a rabid beast
to the iron of me?

or Man begs silently for the warmth of desire, for open arms,
for hands that no longer grasp at his throat.

or Man is a leech, a broken mirror, a wounded animal –
small and fragile and desperate and defeated.

or Man has turned my family against me.
Man has turned my family against me.
Man has turned my family against me.

or Man has turned my family against themselves.

or I was born into the hands of a doctor who sucked
Woman from my throat, filled my gasping
lungs with the drought of Man.

or I was born into the hands of a doctor who worshipped Man.
What chance did I have?

In the morning, I stood up, sticky and sweaty.
I walked to the fridge with weight. 
I felt a stillness. 
This house has been quiet since you left.

When you were gone I slept on your side of the bed and 
didn’t wake up once during the night. There could only 
be two reasons—
1) Because your side is better than mine or 
2) Because I sleep better when you are gone.

When you were gone I cleaned the house and sat in silence. 
I read on the balcony while I grilled chicken wings in a 
marinade I had invented (You would have loved them).
I slept naked. 
I didn’t flush the toilet every time. I danced. 
I had friends over for cherries and pistachios. 
I moved your chair to the other side of the room. 
I watched the fireworks. 
I smoked your weed. 
I listened to music. I stretched. I sang. 
I stayed up late. 
I fell asleep on the couch. 
I touched myself. 
I took a long shower. I fell asleep on the couch. 
I washed the dishes. I scrubbed the grill. 
I ate ice cream. 
I ate ice cream. 
I ate ice cream. 
I missed you most in the afternoon when the daylight
no longer knew which color it wanted to be. 
I watched a video of us singing in the park. 
I smiled out loud. I thought about what it would be like 
to dance for you—If you’d ever get over yourself.
I thought about what it would be like to flirt with you like
you were a stranger—If I could ever get over myself. 
I looked at my nails a lot. I wrote. 
I talked to angels. 
I listened. 
I mapped out five different garage sales happening 
around our home and planned to go to each one.
I didn’t. I tricked time. 
I crushed hunger. 
I did not cry.
I did not drink. 
I did not lock the sliding door.

You said my name for the last time
The night before you died
Exhausted and terrified 
You lifted the oxygen mask from your mouth
And said, hi jenn
That was all you could muster
So much hung in the air left unsaid.
Hi jenn, I’m sorry.
Hi jenn, it wasn’t your fault.
Hi jenn, I shouldn’t have kicked you out.
Hi jenn, you are a disappointment.
Hi jenn, you did everything I wanted to do.
Hi jenn, I’m jealous and scared and tired.
Hi jenn, It’s almost over and I fucked up.
Hi jenn, help me.
Hi jenn, save me.
Hi jenn, I’ll never give you the satisfaction of my goodbye.
Hi jenn, pick up the pieces.

When I came into this world they said
Welcome to the holy land
The world is in your palm
Just as you fit into your mother’s

Gave me a name which slid off tongues
In a way too harsh for the American voice and
Too soft for the Dominican palate
I grew up longing for the day where
My name never sounded like an apology

Uncommonly Christian
When I introduced myself to my theology course last year
My professor gave me a look and said
“Ah, that must be why you’re here”

My given name can translate to “sacrifice” and
Coming out as trans has definitely felt that way as I
Give away favorite clothes because dysphoria no longer allows them as I
Endure the bite of a hypodermic needle every other week as I
Still push down the discomfort of being a “daughter”, “sister”, “aunt” when I am just a person and

I can feel the knife being twisted
While my veins run cold
The world stops as I
Smile while they hug me and 
Greet the ghost of who I used to be 
They unmask me to my friends
They sacrifice me and

Making a home out of this flesh prison means
Sacrificing my home and
Your love and
The comfort in between our silences
It means
Saying goodbye to you, to me,
To us and our simplicities
But I have long been ready to sweep this ash and
Rise from the dead

Hello,
My name is Max and
The only thing I’m sacrificing today is
Fear

This time with Natives, not my old bougie choice
Of American Spirits. I took up nail polish
In Millennial Pink. I started mixing Sangria
With Coca-Cola.

I went to work and dipped in and out of lives,
Looked at grandchildren peering out from wallets;
I touched the shoulder of a man who drinks
Elevated IPAs like he might die tomorrow.

He might die tomorrow.

He waits for the bus and stumbles outside.
I was supposed to help him remember, 
But I got hypnotized by
Chelsea Wolfe, that haunting:
“How many years have I been sleeping?”

But who listens to lyrics anymore?

I give him a bag of Lay’s. I pat him
On the shoulder. Softly, softly
Driving home from the bar with
Depeche Mode on, I can finally
Hear my own tires taking me 
Home. Not anywhere I want to be.
Not up in the mountains, where high
Prairie flowers break your heart
One by one. Too delicate.

Was everything on Earth built to fail?

A couple show me a video of a baby
Learning to talk. We laugh. As I turn
To wash the glasses, the detergent
Slides up my arms. It burns. “I’ll
Cry later,” I think, “Yes, that’s when.”