Marissa Coon Rose lives and works in the Rust Belt. Her work has recently appeared in Literary Mama, Flying Island, Likely Red Press, and Tuck Magazine. You might also catch her in upcoming issues of Riggwelter Press, Peculiar Journal, and Sou’wester Poetry Journal.





Marissa Coon Rose

Walt Whitman

After it’s over, and I come out, I walk about my neighborhood and pretend I am Walt Whitman: I sing chain-store signs wrought with neon on a fresh night, and because I am him, I already know the libretto of queerness in America in the age of Trump, America of Trump, I know the check-cashing joint with gilt lettering, the wine and spirit bottles made amnesic by paper bags, the polystyrene cups of cola and cigarette butts stuffed into their empty husks, the aria that scales power lines like granite flecks of pigeons against sky the one where silence doesn’t settle, near and everywhere I sing the dappled hallowed preserve of overgrown lots dotting the avenues, whoosh of air brakes on the city bus, Missionaries in their hosiery on a boarded-up corner where a bank used to be, while my being reflects itself in two mirrors — cereal-bowl-stacked, infinite in receding — and I wonder, singing my country, when will it ever sing me back? I am Walt Whitman. My face is an open smile. I take the harmony.


I am often caught between the tension of what it means to embrace my roots as a citizen of the Rust Belt with what it means to be an LGBTQ person. The two identities are not, as the media might believe, mutually exclusive, but the Rust Belt is a complicated place and my struggle with identity occasionally reflects that. I wanted to write a poem that captured that experience while also honoring Walt Whitman, who seemed to be able to merge identity of place and identity of person seamlessly when he wrote.



Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
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