They fumble for which demons we
bind, which sequence of genomes keeps
the body’s score, in that old, virulent
lore of /ˈwʊm.ən/ and /mæn/.
“As concerned parents!” the gender ideo-
-logues of war drool and bark,
the preachers gowned in lobbyist gold,
phasing out trans lives with parliament bills,
referral cancellations, death merchant pride floats,
stalled visas and obituary deadnames.
They scramble for which survivals we
bind, so I start them off:
- Clothes swap flannels
- Unrequited gazes
- Creased pride flags Blu-Tacked to the wall
- Carabiners without keys
- AIDS generations
- Kandi trades
- Saying no
- Combined incomes
- New questions
- Hands hurling bricks
- Butch aunties
- Sore throats that lower voices
- Supreme Court decisions
- Library meets
- Envies
- Breakcore
- Pink triangles on posters older than you are
- Body hair
- Silent sobs
- Hands gripping placards
- Exchanged Skypes
- Share house couches
- International solidarity
- Spare kettles
- My hands cupping your face and my
lips kissing your cheek over
and over because you’re still here,
you’re still here
- Demonia boots with buckles
- Soft rain playlists
- Trashed newspapers
- Gifted zines
- Tattoos on old scars
- Online quiz results
- Interrogation releases
- Borrowed sundresses
- Land Back
- Cosplay accounts
- Years of different lonelinesses
- Pronouns in the languages you speak
- Hands holding hands
I keep grasping for the solaces we bind.
From my bunker of a room, over
the hips of the valley that finds home in me,
I sift through guestbooks of frayed personhood
that bloom over my monitor.
Eucalypts pierce the sky like leg hairs
and I tumble in the sea foam
of my own private list.
I have missed so many things,
and I will continue to miss so much
that they’ll never get us all.
