Category Archives: Poetry

Enough

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Some things are so painful they have to be remembered in reflections,
whispers,
the imprint they left on the glass,
the bruises on skin or heart.

The moment in time when the fist hit… no.
The words that carved you empty… too raw a wound.
But you, my heart, my anchor, myself:
you did not deserve these scars.

That does not make them go away.

And yet, here you stand, brave, vulnerable,
alive.
You formed your bruises into stories of strength,
acknowledged the whispers as the lashing
of another’s insecurity.

You know their pain does not make you less than.

You are more than the words whispered in the dark of the heart,
more than the wounds you didn’t earn
but healed from anyway.

You are the joy that transforms your smile when you nurture a loved one,
the hope and wonder you face the future with.
You are the silly moments, the cat cuddles, the way
you refuse to compromise your worth.

You are enough.

Prism Blooming

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I.

I thought you were a prism – the birthplace of rainbows,
the hope for a future far from my grief.
You showed me a world built of color:
sunsets and deep conversation and dreaming;
emotion, electric with light.
But in the end, you were just a kaleidoscope
a jumble of broken parts I tried to make art
that never quite fit the way we planned.

I don’t blame you. You were trying to make yourself art too.
Our pictures were just too different, focus hazy.
The light fractured. The sun set. We rose separate.
I’m learning.

II.

Days passed, then weeks. I don’t remember much – it was all a blur
of staring, of crying, of not crying and staring empty some more.

Then a bud. A crack. A bloom of life. One night
spent among strangers who awoke as friends.
It wasn’t a prism, but it was light.

III.

As I stumbled through the next days, the bud grew
until the blaze, tended sweetly, became a garden.
Staring in the mirror, I forgot it was reflection
and I saw the colors for the first time.
I wasn’t looking for imperfection, and so I didn’t find flaws
just the prism radiating,
rainbow blooming through and beneath.
All along, the prism I needed
was me.

Mosaic Heart

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I.

When my heart fractured, it wasn’t beautiful. It was just broken. The edges cut deep into muscle and soul. I was more exhaustion than man, brittle and shaking. But if there’s one lesson my childhood taught me, it’s “don’t leave a mess.” So I picked up the shards, letting the tears bleed.

II.

Can you glue a heart back together with whispers of hope and the memory of dreaming? Or will it always be broken, even if you can find its shape again? I didn’t know. I fumbled the pieces into shape, and I hoped.

III.

It became a meditation, fitting one piece with the next, bridging colors and atriums, reconnecting arteries and emotion. Sometimes I lost the thread of hope and had to start again. Sometimes the tears washed a piece free. I may have fractured, but I did not crumble, and slowly, I became art.

IV.

Maybe I was always a masterpiece and you just taught me to forget. My heart casts a thousand reflections, every one of them beautiful, as I learn to love again.

V.

I start with myself.

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Yesterday they drew my blood
but found only ice,
the rage frozen beneath my skin,
heart straining.

Sometimes I
forget that my blood should be liquid.

You tell me the personal is political.
I remember threats in bathroom stalls,
suicide rates, the courts
of public opinion.
My identity is not yours to debate.

I ball my hands into fists
and walk away.

—the political is personal

The Absence of Color

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In art, black is just the absence of color,
like the absence of you in history books and boardrooms.

Or maybe it’s the presence of absence:
The blank space where your son used to sit–
where your mother used to dance–
where your father once cried when the police brought the bodies–
limp, lifeless, drained of color.

Or maybe it’s the listing that suddenly disappeared;
the vacancy already filled:
“I’m sorry, you’re too late,” say the white, white bodies–
the same white bodies seeking you on Craigslist.
“Cross another experience off my bucket list.”

But you are so much more than an experience.
You are a universe.

Still, they ignore your beauty for the spots of light, call them stars;
call you dark matter.
Funny, when you don’t seem to matter to them
unless you’re under a microscope.

So when they say they’re blind to color
what they really mean is that your absence is not seen.
They’re too busy staring at stars
on the silver screen.

Retreat to the Shower

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There is something about showers that is soothing,

like: I can’t sleep through the violence of the memories
(retreat to the shower)

like: The world is a cold place and I just need a little warmth
(retreat to the shower)

like: I can’t remember why I’m alive but I’m afraid to sleep
(retreat to the shower)

like: I’m so tired of dying every night in my dreams
(retreat to the shower)

And the showerhead is a sun
amidst the clouds of steam;
but it casts the kind of light
that allows you, at last

to find rest
from the shards of your past.

Prisoner and Pride

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This is a picture of me,
the rainbow on a chain around my neck
both prisoner and pride.

This body is mine.
Mine to own and care for, but
the strange curves of hips and chest,
the thickness of the thighs,
the high waist, the voice,
unabashedly feminine,
unflinching in the mirror:

Those do not belong to me,
photo or not,
flesh or not.

I am all rough edges and stubble,
gritty passion and flame.
But I’ve watched my demons come and go,
addressing me by name.

Still, I stand male,
though of all my friendships,
fear is the most familiar.

The light that formed this photograph
can just as easily devour it, and I
am caught somewhere in the middle
of fighting for myself,
and fighting to make the world safe for myself

and others like me.

When Beautiful Things Come Together With Time

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Eli is coal. Built from a million memories and past experiences,
he is what happens when beautiful things come together with time.
Charcoal meets paper. The past and the present collide
and art is formed from their touch.

When you are lost in the darkness, call for him. His light will guide you home,
forming brilliance from broken moments and hope from scars.
Why coal was named darkness when it forms such gorgeous light
is something I will never understand.

Still he burns, moment to moment, creating art from shadows and blood.
His heart is fierce in its love to those lucky enough to receive it, and I
bow down to the resilience in its touch.

Maybe beauty and time
can be enough.