Abstract
We muddle
morning without a bed
Gunfire pops
like bursting light bulbs
memories of sweaty queer brown bodies
crawl
You can’t cry out!
Here
Children splash
parents smile
for a fucking picture
no one is taking
stilled ghosts
I sit next to my husband
(which I’ve never said out loud before)
Thousands count
One, two, three all the way to 50
every post a sermon.
Who are you shooting at?
We zone out
Trees and shit whip by.
The pull of home.
I am a state of silence.
Deal with being uncomfortable.
Unimportant loudness
flowers, candles, signs,
rainbow shit
bodies leaning into
I say things I don’t recall.
We eat wings.
Insert smiles and comment
Chicago vigil.
18 years ago we stood with candles waiting
wondering if Matthew
would live.
A text from New York:
“we miss u boys.” You can cry here.
A role to catch my fall
It’s Night of the Comet
Tyrone 7 feet tall
a man of color
he’s asking advice/seeking help
he’s afraid
he’s asking me what—
he is queer
He feels like a target
He’s asking if he should go
to Gay Pride
if his Black body is safe
fuck fuck fuck, no
but he already knows that.
I retreat into stories
when every outing was an act of courage
when somehow out of the hurl of faggots
we found a way to keep going.
Vodka and Boystown.
Moment I stop thinking
About 49, and the one
a tear on the loose
I get on my nerves.
I’m back to watching doors
We are because of them
We are looking into each other’s eyes
We are hugging differently
Absorbing grief
fury through presence.
I am not trying to erase my whiteness
I’m making sense in the absence of it.
PrideFest day #1
I drink with colleagues, all heteros
everyone a sympathetic opinion
I can’t deal with
me and my husband
don’t have words for you.
Three in the morning
trans woman is stabbed
by the vigil
bleeding on top of it all.
The week finally rears its head:
What the hell do I do with that!
No good from this. Nothing good!
Kick cry break
Kindness:
A map to something
A how to breathe
way to see real
and radical
#Eight
#Nine
#Ten
#11
—Mary E. Weems, 2016
