Two poems for Orlando
cadencia (a poem for Orlando) by Martina “Mick” Powell link
for KJ Morris and all the beautiful people we lost in Orlando, FL on June 12, 2016
& that night,
they were only there to own themselves,
to dance these bodies through their gentle,
reckless ways of loving
to undo their tragic emptying
to be called the right name
to make room for this catharsis
to fill up with magnolia water
to run his rounded hips against his
to taste the nectar of the fearless
to feel the bass in all the raw spots
to know they had survived
oh, how often bodies of a kind
might press themselves together
into a nightless love a tangled liana a beautiful prayer
almost like a ritual
for reconciliation.
/
i tell Lauren & Vanessa, “we can do this,
we can talk about her”
and then get scared to write the poem
without metaphor. we are scared to write
our scary thoughts, scared we are the morbid mortals
left to memorialize and we are doing it wrong
and i think i am almost always wrong, we are
almost always only asking questions
because we’re scared like,
were you first?
was it quick?
did you cry
for her? we are scared you didn’t
know when and how often we loved you,
how caringly we held your name
-in Northampton, under light and electronica
and straight jaw and narrow throat
how slender sexy you moved, twisting masculinity
a soft thing they wanted to hold in their mouths
-in Narragansett, drinking daylight with our bodies
and smoking pot in someone else’s house-how high
were we to call janet jackson an old dog? how much
beautiful love was left unsaid and understood?
/
this is my “i love you” poem
this is the tear that unfolds
these flowers in my palm
this is a rainbow to carry you all
into a soft place
this is a sapphic quiet,
a communal pulse
to open
a sun into this day
hot and solar and not quite gentle,
recklessly stealing retina to turn
our body visible sanctuary, to say:
“i am looking for you,
i am reflecting your love
in the softest of golds.”
ALL THE DEAD BOYS LOOK LIKE ME
by Christopher Soto link
for Orlando
Last time, I saw myself die is when police killed Jessie Hernandez
A 17 year old brown queer, who was sleeping in their car
Yesterday, I saw myself die again. Fifty times I died in Orlando. And
I remember reading, Dr. José Esteban Muñoz before he passed
I was studying at NYU, where he was teaching, where he wrote shit
That made me feel like a queer brown survival was possible. But he didn’t
Survive and now, on the dancefloor, in the restroom, on the news, in my chest
There are another fifty bodies, that look like mine, and are
Dead. And I have been marching for Black Lives and talking about the police brutality
Against Native communities too, for years now, but this morning
I feel it, I really feel it again. How can we imagine ourselves // We being black native
Today, Brown people // How can we imagine ourselves
When All the Dead Boys Look Like Us? Once, I asked my nephew where he wanted
To go to College. What career he would like, as if
The whole world was his for the choosing. Once, he answered me without fearing
Tombstones or cages or the hands from a father. The hands of my lover
Yesterday, praised my whole body. Made the angels from my lips, Ave Maria
Full of Grace. He propped me up like the roof of a cathedral, in NYC
Before, we opened the news and read. And read about people who think two brown queers
Cannot build cathedrals, only cemeteries. And each time we kiss
A funeral plot opens. In the bedroom, I accept his kiss, and I lose my reflection.
I am tired of writing this poem, but I want to say one last word about
Yesterday, my father called. I heard him cry for only the second time in my life
He sounded like he loved me. It’s something I am rarely able to hear.
And I hope, if anything, his sound is what my body remembers first.
for KJ Morris and all the beautiful people we lost in Orlando, FL on June 12, 2016
& that night,
they were only there to own themselves,
to dance these bodies through their gentle,
reckless ways of loving
to undo their tragic emptying
to be called the right name
to make room for this catharsis
to fill up with magnolia water
to run his rounded hips against his
to taste the nectar of the fearless
to feel the bass in all the raw spots
to know they had survived
oh, how often bodies of a kind
might press themselves together
into a nightless love a tangled liana a beautiful prayer
almost like a ritual
for reconciliation.
/
i tell Lauren & Vanessa, “we can do this,
we can talk about her”
and then get scared to write the poem
without metaphor. we are scared to write
our scary thoughts, scared we are the morbid mortals
left to memorialize and we are doing it wrong
and i think i am almost always wrong, we are
almost always only asking questions
because we’re scared like,
were you first?
was it quick?
did you cry
for her? we are scared you didn’t
know when and how often we loved you,
how caringly we held your name
-in Northampton, under light and electronica
and straight jaw and narrow throat
how slender sexy you moved, twisting masculinity
a soft thing they wanted to hold in their mouths
-in Narragansett, drinking daylight with our bodies
and smoking pot in someone else’s house-how high
were we to call janet jackson an old dog? how much
beautiful love was left unsaid and understood?
/
this is my “i love you” poem
this is the tear that unfolds
these flowers in my palm
this is a rainbow to carry you all
into a soft place
this is a sapphic quiet,
a communal pulse
to open
a sun into this day
hot and solar and not quite gentle,
recklessly stealing retina to turn
our body visible sanctuary, to say:
“i am looking for you,
i am reflecting your love
in the softest of golds.”
ALL THE DEAD BOYS LOOK LIKE ME
by Christopher Soto link
for Orlando
Last time, I saw myself die is when police killed Jessie Hernandez
A 17 year old brown queer, who was sleeping in their car
Yesterday, I saw myself die again. Fifty times I died in Orlando. And
I remember reading, Dr. José Esteban Muñoz before he passed
I was studying at NYU, where he was teaching, where he wrote shit
That made me feel like a queer brown survival was possible. But he didn’t
Survive and now, on the dancefloor, in the restroom, on the news, in my chest
There are another fifty bodies, that look like mine, and are
Dead. And I have been marching for Black Lives and talking about the police brutality
Against Native communities too, for years now, but this morning
I feel it, I really feel it again. How can we imagine ourselves // We being black native
Today, Brown people // How can we imagine ourselves
When All the Dead Boys Look Like Us? Once, I asked my nephew where he wanted
To go to College. What career he would like, as if
The whole world was his for the choosing. Once, he answered me without fearing
Tombstones or cages or the hands from a father. The hands of my lover
Yesterday, praised my whole body. Made the angels from my lips, Ave Maria
Full of Grace. He propped me up like the roof of a cathedral, in NYC
Before, we opened the news and read. And read about people who think two brown queers
Cannot build cathedrals, only cemeteries. And each time we kiss
A funeral plot opens. In the bedroom, I accept his kiss, and I lose my reflection.
I am tired of writing this poem, but I want to say one last word about
Yesterday, my father called. I heard him cry for only the second time in my life
He sounded like he loved me. It’s something I am rarely able to hear.
And I hope, if anything, his sound is what my body remembers first.