Tyler Friend
A Woman Leaves Vermont [comma] the World
And we feel it. We feel it
in Tennessee, Alabama, Alaska. We feel it
in Bellingham and Way-South Texas. We feel it
in Iowa and Albuquerque, maybe most of all. I hardly knew her,
but I know what she did for us, that she cut limes for my Corona, cooked
me tacos, let me play her videogames. Was radical, wanted
to perform abortions on every street corner. Bring your own hanger, five
dollars. Walked with me
in the middle of the street, with boxes of wine, with her wife
and Magaly, and never once let anyone see her scared.
I’m scared. The first time I met my coworker at the library
she told me that her friend is trans
and in the same breath that he tried to commit suicide
last month. I’m not sure why she tells me
these things, but I’m glad she feels like she can. Sometimes
being queer in the south seems so lonely, so
quiet. Sometimes it feels like we’re glass floats, and sometimes
it feels like we’re mastheads, and sometimes we’re the waves.
Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
All contents © the author.