My Gender Won’t Fit in the Family Car
KB’s Origin Story
I was born a weary son
painted into a family unit. I can’t
fit in, but I do fit jeans if I squeeze
into them enough. I pain myself
with laughter when someone asks
whose baby is this. I sleep
in a tunnel of judgments I can’t kick.
I was born a drury daughter,
a crash into a tiny parked car. In the impact,
my gender sprawls all over
the navy leather passenger seat.
This can’t be a wonderful scene:
the navy leather passenger seat
and my gender sprawled all over.
A tiny parked car crashes; in the impact,
I was born a drury daughter.
In a tunnel of judgments I can’t kick,
I sleep. Whose baby is this.
With laughter, when someone asks
into me enough, I pain myself
to fit in. And I do fit genes if I squeeze
paint into a family unit. I can’t
be born a weary son.
I do. Count how quickly the moon moves
phases & how quickly I abandon a poem
draft for another half-baked memory. The scraps
document in my mind must be at least 300
pages. My dating profile must be at least 3 zodiac
signs, 2 fun facts, 1 fatality I’m still recovering
from displayed in every emoji. My manuscript is spilling
over with head-turners & heartbreak. Paper clips
& Drake playlists have never been stretched this thin.
I want to do better but I don’t know how or when. Maybe
10 of the scraps are romantic; I say it’s cause I leave
that shit to Sinatra. Truth is I leave pages
(& lovers) soon as it’s inconvenient; too vulnerable;
too meaningful; I do. But today I want
my skin tethered to this chair. I’m staying
inside these stanzas; I’m finally ready to tell
the truth. All smoke & piano & somber
spillings of times a lover treated me all perfect & I packed
up prematurely. Her eyes crusted open
as my glutted gym bag swung across me
& when her sepia irises filled with my reflection,
I had to flee. Candyman. Spewing sugared
empty statements like of course I love you out of unknowing.
Of course I am a liar & I am learning for you. For now
I’ll say I do & vow to finish more sapphic poems
after I wrap these wounds. Tell her Honey, my love spreads
farther than my need to hide behind history for you. I do.