When I die
Where will my loved ones see me buried?
Within the fired synapses of people I cared for
And held gently in passing thoughts that
Evaporate like soft steam from morning tea
One summer, your mama took us to the forest to collect Schnittlauch.
We came home and mixed the Schnittlauch with our pancake batter,
and I was happy, because these pancakes were not sour, or familiar like our Dosas.
I just failed to accept that reality strips you to the bone
Does me finding the courage to trust myself
Really push you away?
“Saint Sebastian, I have many things to confess.”
“closing her eyes as their lips meet / she can taste her desperation / desperate to forget the boys who came before”.
He takes to work / His little, red lunchbox.
My sexuality is not a university research paper, requiring citations in Chicago Style format