Weeks after Bak died
nobody dared to touch his things
his one black songkok tucked in
the corner of the brown gerobok
his sarongs remain folded
crisp from corner to corner
his white checkered shirt
another checkered shirt
another checkered shirt
We move with the sun, and the sun has been drifting.
These days light is further away and comes wrong—
meltwater dims every depth and the slick
of oil and ballast mars waves into mirrors.
Every night, something glares. It isn't the moon.
There is nowhere else to go
but down to the earth where
we often bury secrets and loved ones.
Dig me out, dig me in
blanket our problems with dirt
CW: self-harm, suicide, depression and homophobic slurs
In another dream just like this one, you belonged to me. You, and that tide pool reflection. That's how things were before everything hemorrhaged as the ocean. Summer of ’99 when the morning had set sail and I was sissy with a conch shell. That’s what they called me then.
Read MoreCW: death, misogyny, drugs, bodily harm, sexual + domestic violence
Solidarity on Facebook? Apparently, people get together to rehearse the scientific truth of Law and Order. Death to criminals, to the disenfranchised, to the margins. I felt, I thought, I wished: how nice it would be to be able to relate to someone, but I cannot touch another's hand while they find safety in being faceless, safety via misreading the violence done to all of us.
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