part i: making up
We carried our poverty on our rib cages,
nicotine stained fingertips,
grizzled dreams,
and in our veins--
thick
with the abandon of what was,
and the romantics that could be.
Our connections to each other
were ultimately built upon our
lack of connections
to the people
that culture told us would
care the most.
So we shoveled our histories
into compartmentalized valves;
hoping that
t i m e and pressure
might condense them into
something more
manageable.
And then:
rebuilt
with our only tools,
a FORTRESS
to withstand the blows
of those who told us
we were not enough.
What we failed to realize
is that you cannot build a barricade
| To keep out
an enemy that is settled in your
gut.
nicotine stained fingertips,
grizzled dreams,
and in our veins--
thick
with the abandon of what was,
and the romantics that could be.
Our connections to each other
were ultimately built upon our
lack of connections
to the people
that culture told us would
care the most.
So we shoveled our histories
into compartmentalized valves;
hoping that
t i m e and pressure
might condense them into
something more
manageable.
And then:
rebuilt
with our only tools,
a FORTRESS
to withstand the blows
of those who told us
we were not enough.
What we failed to realize
is that you cannot build a barricade
| To keep out
an enemy that is settled in your
gut.
part ii: making do
Sometimes I remember
he carried that ankle bracelet with more care
than his child,
wrapping it tenderly,
bathing it with a soft, wet, sponge.
And in the early morning,
on our family outing to the alley,
behind the grey building,
where he peed in a cup,
to prove his worth--
we would cross our fingers for him.
For his son.
For ourselves.
And in the afternoon
we would park-hop with the baby,
playing P-I-G or H-O-R-S-E,
swinging
on creaky play-sets,
until the sun rested its brow
on the mountain’s ragged edge.
We would part
when the messy family car
pulled out of the parking lot,
leaving me behind to
prove my worth--
It still amazes me
how many
different varieties of grease
can coat your soles
after a night of work.
How slick it makes each step
as you walk home along the highway.
he carried that ankle bracelet with more care
than his child,
wrapping it tenderly,
bathing it with a soft, wet, sponge.
And in the early morning,
on our family outing to the alley,
behind the grey building,
where he peed in a cup,
to prove his worth--
we would cross our fingers for him.
For his son.
For ourselves.
And in the afternoon
we would park-hop with the baby,
playing P-I-G or H-O-R-S-E,
swinging
on creaky play-sets,
until the sun rested its brow
on the mountain’s ragged edge.
We would part
when the messy family car
pulled out of the parking lot,
leaving me behind to
prove my worth--
It still amazes me
how many
different varieties of grease
can coat your soles
after a night of work.
How slick it makes each step
as you walk home along the highway.
✱✱✱
| Ferin A-w is a queer human who has too many houseplants, bakes for a living, and loves kitschy, retro video games. She graduated from Quest University Canada in 2015, where she studied arts for social change. She has been writing in secret for years, but hopes to share more and more as she grows as a human being. |
