It's going to be a stiff drop to sadness, OK?
I just wanted to give you a little.
OK.
"Seagull, Tiny."
The villagers are watchful in their booths at Boston Market,
the boys living on sulfur and talking
about feelings and memory.
The United States is the collective process
of demanding feelings and a certain memory.
I would live on synthetics, but I hate fragility.
Lonely and afraid, my women sing, there is no father in me.
They talk about anything a limit allows.
There is hope of forgiveness, but my American corpse
has been such a disappointment.
I would live on feeling safe and spilling secrets.
It is confusing, the plain people
passing like potato blossoms.
When I first met a trans person at age seven,
she served us mashed potatoes at Boston Market.
Mother winced, and statistically, it's
unlikely she kept the job.
I am worthy of eating food, I tell myself.
There is some hope of forgiveness for boys.
I would live on their plastic.
It is confusing that words trick us.
So that's the small taste.