CW: racism, gun violence, transphobic slur
this poem is really titled black tranny chemistry
sorry. sometimes, i forget becoming
what looks like a son is becoming what
looks more like a Black man. i caught
my words in a mirror today, watched
them buzz and scramble as a bullet
tore through the thesis like spilly
fingers experimenting with a new
compound; Black + Transmasc +
Self Love = The Seduction Of
A Supernova. if i take your hand
to pull you through the loss of a
daughter, will you flinch? do
you need to savor the grief or do
you fear my grip is that of God
securing you, so you can be pulled
through the muck and faced with
my casket. you cannot find my face
in the thicket of His shadow before
He implodes & a crowd surfaces. now,
white queers pour themselves in like
oil tempting—no, teasing—water. & hey
where is my body? oh & is that my
name, the one embedded in their
condolences that sounds like a
muffled gunshot? if you listen
closer, you’ll hear an apology
& that is hushed too. so, have
it here, like this: sorry, mom. but
i’m learning backwards; reborn,
then dead.
sorry. sometimes, i forget becoming
what looks like a son is becoming what
looks more like a Black man. i caught
my words in a mirror today, watched
them buzz and scramble as a bullet
tore through the thesis like spilly
fingers experimenting with a new
compound; Black + Transmasc +
Self Love = The Seduction Of
A Supernova. if i take your hand
to pull you through the loss of a
daughter, will you flinch? do
you need to savor the grief or do
you fear my grip is that of God
securing you, so you can be pulled
through the muck and faced with
my casket. you cannot find my face
in the thicket of His shadow before
He implodes & a crowd surfaces. now,
white queers pour themselves in like
oil tempting—no, teasing—water. & hey
where is my body? oh & is that my
name, the one embedded in their
condolences that sounds like a
muffled gunshot? if you listen
closer, you’ll hear an apology
& that is hushed too. so, have
it here, like this: sorry, mom. but
i’m learning backwards; reborn,
then dead.
Jaiden Thompson (they/he) is a young writer walking the line between poetic genius and foolery. They have work published or forthcoming in Jupiter Review, Superfroot, Queerling, All Guts No Glory, and COUNTERCLOCK, among others. They are also an editor for Interstellar Literary Review. Find them on Twitter @jaibird_writes.