A poetry and photo series exploring personal and spatial absence of grief and queerness in rural East Texas. Currently still under works.

A special thanks to Jivko Andonov for the help and support in this project.

“Texas Son” 

People say this is God’s country,
but the devil is working straight through me

as I think about your touch burning my skin like 

the sweltering southern heat 

running through my blood through

my bones through my sinful,

sinful little heart.

As a child I memorized Bible verses in exchange for gold stars.

I tilt my chin towards the heavens in my mom’s backyard,

notice how much prettier the stars look
when they don’t hold each prayer in their sharp edges.
There’s a weed under my foot that feels too 

much like a root. Roots run deep,

they cut deeper.

My aunt the other day placed a
crooked smile in my back pocket and mumbled 

I’m so tired of being someone else.

Her and I hide under a table cloth embroidered with blackbirds, 

dish out the gossip on her roommate of nine years.

She says she discovered what worship was through
battle cries and masks taken off at night before bed 

with shallow sighs and a tender touch in the dark. 

We set the dining table, sit down to eat. 

Legs crossed is how you cross the threshold between girl and woman.

No one ever said the same would be the case when they spread apart.

I want to sit on the floor and throw a fit.

All tears - screams and tantrums wrung around my neck,

ears clogged and pierced, necklaces too tight.

Not silver nor gold, but coppered and green, smelling of old pennies.

Everything is turning. Soiled.

I’m no exception. Rusted, tarnished. 

I am only so good until you get me wet.

Penny for your thoughts?

I wonder how much faith I’d need to hold you tomorrow 

during the sun’s highest point of the day. 

A raven lands on the back deck and I ask 

when loving unconditionally became so conditioned. 

It tells me filling space can hurt before making you feel full. ”