july

drowning,
and your chocolate eyes melt
into your outstretched hand
your curly hair rubbing against my cheek
when i blink
but when the lids come up
the tide's carried you away.

i am just another girl
writing too many poems
about people i will never have.
and nothing is permanent;
that's always broken my heart the most.

tomorrow the rainstorm will be gone
and this existential mood
will most likely have passed.

but right now, i know
you got off work 21 minutes ago
and right now, you're glad to be done
with the place that reminds you of me
but that's wishful thinking.

i shifted my bravada into 3rd gear
angling the frame downhill
wishing you'd laugh your ass off
with me, taking the edge off my freak

and i'll probably never stop mistaking
kindness for falling in love
and giggling at others for the same mistake;
tripping on my feet watching you trip on yours.

it's always brown eyes
it's always me, 50 feet under,
so far gone i didn't realize i wasn't still standing
in the beam of your stupid grin.

i run from movies, books,
art, songs, faces, and anything
that reminds me i have a heart.
but what if
i inched my fingers
toward the beating in your chest?

Queen of Silence

I am thankful just
to breathe
this air.

Raindrops splash puddles on my new black glasses
and I follow, dressed in black,
a stormcloud of Danes crossing the street to Nørreport Station.

Klokken 16, 4 pm, and they've just gotten off work,
hurrying home to families who will greet them
with more than the sorrowful grunts
I am used to.

I stomp over the construction site,
down stairs marked yellow,
and stroll toward Spor 4.

The S-Tog to Farum will whoosh forward
in a rush of underground air
in exactly 1 minute.
Destinations: Østerport, Nordhavn, Svanemøllen,
and a long list of others I can only attempt
to form
with my American mouth.
I am silent.

Books open, headphones on,
laptops whirring, chewing silent,
the people on the train gaze downward.
I hold on to a pole and sway,
gazing out the rainstreaked windows,
wondering if I see what they see:

a new land
swallowing me whole,
hours left to go,
and a fuchsia backpack the size of a koala
to prove it.

I do not know the names
of any Danes I pass-
red shoes, acid washed jeans,
sheets of blonde hair dancing over hoods.

I haven't become one of them, but I move with them-
creep toward the green light with them,
look both ways and run for it with them,
offer the redhead mom with drooping eyelids
a passing grin when she catches my gaze
from the next compartment.

You are just a girl,
the playground boy band shouted
as I lined up to shoot a ricocheting hoop.

But they were wrong.
I am a queen among puddles,
a sycamore in bloom,
but I won't provide your shade.

With every step I feel more full-
full of adventure, though I am not
always on the edge of my seat.
Full like a five course meal,
splayed out on my new red couch
like my grandma of a calico cat.

A young helmeted boy waits
as I instagram the stormy sky
over Tåsingegade.

I offer a grin that he doesn't return
- like most Danes -
and propel myself forward,
away from echoing Americans
who don't know
that being silent
is the greatest thing you can offer.

Shower empowerment

it’s 11:03 am.

i should be in class, but

it’s like my body knows it’s a holiday

and somehow, i can’t get out of bed

on valentine’s day.

today my valentine is a country away,

but it’s been done before.

overpriced danish shampoo –

for “normal” hair –

squirts into my open left palm

my square palm, earth,

according to those palm memes

suds spring up as i scrub

my palms together, then

pull them apart to stare.

these are the same palms that

pressed sweaty against yours

at that potter con in 2010.

these are the same palms

that gripped a cold, wet can of coke

forgetting my hatred of cold, wet things;

i was too preoccupied with your calm face

on that white porch swing

with the big cushion that kept sliding off.

these are the same hands that trailed

along your waist

freshman year, room 302.

and my pride grows wings larger than a phoenix’s

thinking of conquered chemistry worksheets,

algebra exams, internet fights, and

the way your eyebrows crumbled

all under my fingers

when you said you weren’t sure

if you could live how you wanted.

you couldn’t come out, but now you’re going

to german pride.

with these hands i couldn’t catch

a football in seventh grade,

“i’m vegan,” i told mr. munson.

“what’s a vug-an?” he replied, eyebrows

knitting as he chuckled.

these hands wrote novels, stirred 4 am pasta,

stitched my bleeding heart back together again.

they picked up the phone and dialed you

to tell you i needed to hear your voice.

i am just taking a shower,

kneading suds in my tangled, windswept,

slept-on hair and feeling the power of doing.

because i can do everything on my own

with these two hands.

just tell me when, and they’ll be there

ready to mold and shape life

to how we’ve always wanted

it is valentine’s day

and i am just skipping class

but i am lucky to have these hands

on this earth

with this “normal” hair

and 6 months until i see you again

Six months

It's another May.
My twentieth May.
I want to say who knows
how I got here, but it's not true.
It was by being the exact opposite of you.

At the East End Food Co-Op,
a bearded volunteer
asked me what I write about.
"My sister." First thought, simple.

But back then, you barely
crossed my mind.
Now you're harder to escape.
I didn't think sixteen to twenty would make such a big difference.

I see you in Petunia and Lily,
the sister that got away.
Do you have a sister when she's dead?

I see you in Fred and George,
faces you pinned to your cork board.
Do you remember laughing at the screen for hours?

Staring out my window onto Tåsingegade,
I can't build caring muscles
no matter how many memories I lift.
And it doesn't do to reminisce.

This October, you're invited to my brother's wedding.
Maybe you'll turn up with him on your arm.
Six months was a milestone with your last boyfriend,
but six months is just around the bend.

When you look me up and down,
You won't recognize a freckle.
Won't know how long it's been since I 
plucked my eyebrows, painted your walls,

or made a grilled cheese. You're on your own,
and as much as he tries to pull us together,
this tape
is not double sided.

gold stars

this is a poem i wrote to include in my final chapbook from a college poetry class. it's called 'gold stars' and it's about lesbian stereotypes. 

this is
who we are:
the stone butches
no glitter or sparkles
& we listen to ani difranco
& drive subarus. fuck the razor,
but hold onto it for my pixie cut &
we don't know queerness until we try
it out but it seems you don't either. butch
or femme? pick! where are my doc martens?
they'll look twice when we have cats and tofu
but they all know we are too busy sleeping around,
man hating and living sinfully. we are dykes on bikes,
drugged up on the l word and melissa etheridge and gaga.
bare faced women walking dude-like in plaid and cargo shorts
and key rings. but we must have been abused-- oh, no? well then
it's penis envy. i will call you when i'm done with my softball game
but if i have an appointment converting a straight girl, then it will have to
wait until i graduate from smith...we're moving in on the second date, right?

think outside the box

"honey,
why don't you like this dress?"
mom asks as we pull out shiny
baubled sweaters and itchy scarves
at goodwill.

"it's your size."
"it's not my type."
"what do you mean?" mom laughs.

what do i mean?
let me think. what the hell do i mean?
i mean that after 20 years,
she still can't tell that i'm not comfortable
in dresses.
20 years and i still get the fitted shirts
with "genuine girl", flowers, and american flags
patterned across them
thrown out at me in the aisles.

but what do i mean, not my type?
ever since they put that oozing jelly
on her belly
i've been a girl.
since they stuffed on the pink hat.
since they put me in "daddy's little girl"
onesies.

i never had a choice, a type.

they put us in boxes -
1 or 2,
pink or blue.
what do you mean you don't fit?
the hell is wrong with you?

GIRL or BOY
oh, my bad -
BOY or GIRL
because we know which comes first
we know which is #1
you'd tell your son to choose the blue bike over the pink
and by the time he's an old man,
he'll be tellin his little boys
don't touch those barbies,
you ain't a homo.

dude, don't put that ariel picture on your wall;
you're not a girl.
put back the pink backpack;
pick up the football.
cut out the girl push ups;
save up for your first motorcycle.
forget the long hair;
cut the gay away.

hon, why are you playing with race cars?
there's barbies in the other aisle!
there's fake pockets on your pants?
that's what purses are for!
why don't you do your makeup?
some nice blue eye shadow -
your eyes will pop!
oh, not that they're not pretty already.
don't wear a bra to bed; your boobs won't grow.

so? BOY or GIRL, which will it be?
you think an ultrasound can tell you
the gender of that thing?
they haven't even learned their first word
haven't even cooed,
haven't even gotten a whole scrapbook
dedicated to them
but wait-
pink scrapbook
or blue?

there is no third color, no other.
the yellow walls are only for the unfortunate,
undecided,
unannounced,
unsure,
uncomfortable.
we laugh at the stunted yellow ones,
the gender nonconformists.
the hell's wrong with them?
you can't cheat the system.

come on! THINK OUTSIDE THE BOX!
they chant in school.
if you wanna get in the group for smart kids,
think outside the box.
think outside the box.
forget everything they've told you;
throw it away for an hour.
all 10 years,
all 3650 days,
all 520 weeks,
all 87600 hours,
and that ain't even counting leap years.

so tell me,
how do i think outside this box?
because i'm pushing and shoving and i haven't
felt an escape route for 20 years.
you keep telling me it gets better,
but i'm suffocating here.

oh. that's why.

i am the box.

why we don't hang out

you know in the movies when someone says "you make me nervous"
and the romantic interest is totally enamored with them?
like, they make you nervous - and that's a good thing?
well, that's my cue to leave -
when a flame sparks my nerves i throw water on it;
back off, far, far away
where you can't find me.
probably my bed. you'd know, you were there.
i'm a rockstar in my head
and we can't talk without flirting.

i don't wanna look over and see you watching me.
don't wanna sit on my hands
while i watch your smooth fingers shift gears
in your truck
parked at the bottom of my hill.
you didn't want an audience
and i just wanted to trace
your lips with my fingers
clutching at my booty shorts,
staring a hole through the monopoly board
far from your candy eyes.

the eyes that were trained on him
when you knocked over that trash can
in that closet of a classroom
where you said i didn't seem gay.
we had the same class,
mine later than yours.
i knew where you sat, rubbed the desk
where your big fingers were,
played along like i didn't want you.
and now it's over,
all i have to show for it is one lousy phone call;
one oh-my-god-there-he-is in a cafe.

you asked me why we don't hang out
and this is why
i'm scared of the past,
anxious for the future,
but mostly
nervous about the present.

humid blue

my dress was baby blue,
like if you added pastel food dye
to a toddler's vomit.
it was ruffled, too;
chunky.
i'd just spit it up
on the car ride over.

my glasses pushed themselves up my nose,
sweaty heart slammed into my ribs,
fingers clutched the dress -
the ruched bottom,
gathered and floral,
vintage and mine.

i can't even remember where i found that dress.
maybe aj wright. probably.
my dresses never fit my boobs
if you could call them that
and this dress wasn't fooled
by my slightly oversized tan bra
so
my mom sewed the top together
to hold in what? - no idea
but i tugged up the straps
over my worthless bra
as we sat on a burning bench
and you went,
"no, don't pull it up."

i didn't look
to see if your eyes were twinkling,
baby blue in their glee.

you know

they say you can only find true friendship once in a blue moon
now i know that shit is true cuz
talkin bout it's not me it's not you
then who is it, cuz it's not my cats
not my fish
not the fuzz between my toes
or the dirt under my green nails
not my pretty face, my mannish face

tell me why you mad when you're fuckin up
pushin me away when i get too deep
tellin me watch out, stay on my damn feet
i can't live in a fairytale when my income is 77% of yours
i'm just an angry feminist demanding open doors
well grow my pit hair and you'll be scared
tell me go to france, try to fit in elsewhere
maybe a gay bar or a graveyard

i am an ocean

i am an ocean
twisting and turning,
you would groan under the weight
of my mind that remembers

you said french style green beans are a sin
you said it was a pleasure
to talk to me for 6 hours
to tickle me at a concert
when you knew i'd shriek
just as lauren was about to sing

that was the first time we let our guard down
when i leaned over and kissed your sloppy lips
in my bedroom with beautiful women hugging the walls
i brushed back your hair and thought,
baby, you're beautiful
in all your femininity

and i didn't even think i could've wanted something else
that i was wrong
maybe we were the sin, not me, not by myself
cause how can one atheist defy any god
you were not meant for me

you probably don't remember my green bean preference.

i am an ocean,
salty tears lapping up the gasoline
of your temp job at the pumps.

puppet

i am not your puppet.
you will not wield me, bend me, mold me and make me yours.
you will not decorate my body with words you deem appropriate,
cut out from magazines,
carefully pasted on my pasty legs.

i am not your enemy.
though it may seem so, with my fiery temper
licking up your ocean breeze. .
you can try to tame me,
but this firestorm ain't cracklin for you.

you can take all the offense you want,
but i'll be fine with just water
and maybe a couple packets of
idon'tgiveafuck.
goodbye.