A secret order of saints, house mothers, and watchdogs stand guard over a small colony of opium-filled caterpillars that sit on the moon, spinning husk cocoons for dead trans women and their ancestors in the cocoon a fantasy with no definition becomes a pornographic display of estrogenic wet dreams and the divine feminine I watch myself on earth talking to a john or crossing the street the concrete feels like a wall of exhaust smoke in my mind I step back and watch the impression my body creates In this space my body Flaens itself gravity is not universal and no one experiences its pull the same.
on earth I pray:
Dear Martha and Sylvia I look for you in the sidewalk cracks, and in the sky when I’m under threat. On a good day I can see a part of you in me. If you are watching please send a sign I long for the comfort of your arms, a mother’s embrace.
Last year Dejanay Stanton was murdered 10 blocks away from me. Vontashia Bell was murdered that same day. We didn’t know each other but their passing made me wonder. Where do all the trans women go?
We are worth more in death as a hashtag than when we are alive. Is there a number of times we must say her name before she can find peace? Is there a Backpage in the heaven I dream of?
Fragments of this death sequence, a dream Follow me as I leave the house I look behind me and see them visions of buerflies on the other side