I Learned Tragedy Before Much Else & Dear Lord

I Learned Tragedy Before Much Else

Night, and I’m walking my childhood roads—

the air smells of smoke again—

another fire east of here, those Santa Ana winds—

my mother says I resorbed my twin in the womb—

says, as a child, I was inconsolable—

fire hair, throat shaping around a cry—

a few years back, an entire town burned—

I remember the photographs, acres of flattened houses—

blackened trees, smoke-filled skies—

I saw my teacher learn the news, break down—

and I just stood there—

and, yesterday, I watched season three of Slasher—

saw a mother douse herself in gasoline—

she lit herself on fire in front of her children—

not the most positive queer representation—

and they didn’t search for a hose, run for water—

they just stood there, screaming, helpless—

every year, my father prepares us for the possibility—

a burned-down house, another tragedy—

we all dread summer, the promise of loss—

these streets of my childhood, fresh absence of forest—

no sprouting forget-me-nots, no silver lining—

only this violence of flames—

no lyricism, only blackened trees or bodies—

---

Dear Lord

tell me how to feel
about what I saw.
Walking
along the overgrown path, 
two women
up ahead
clasped hands.
One lifted her lover’s
up to her lips
to leave a quiet kiss.
Tell me it’s okay:
the way I felt
my chest ache—some desire
to love like that,
to be loved like that.
Felt flowers fly from my mouth
and bloom in midair.
Tell me if it’s okay:
the way I felt whole
for the first time
in forever.
I followed silently,
hiking through the grass
as last night’s rain fell
from leaves.
The sun peeked out from behind
their bodies:
Lord, was that light your wide smile,
your bright-eyed blessing? Lord,
I begged you
to give me something
to believe in.
Is this it?
Because this looked like love: these women
with hands clasped
like a covenant. Tell me:
am I wrong to want
the one I want?
Dear Lord, let me remind you
whom I want: the green-eyed girl
with fruit trees growing
tall in her yard,
her hair the scent
of citrus.
Lord, I know someone 
once said Anything
is possible, and I called him
a filthy liar.
And It doesn’t matter
whom you love,
as long as you’re happy, said no one ever.
Love is love,
no one said—
at least not in this town.
But, Lord,
let me hold her
hand. Lord, promise me you
won’t punish me
for wanting
a taste.