Evening Will Come: A Monthly Journal of Poetics (Issue 24, December 2012—Trans / Queer Issue)

O, a poetics

In this city floated by rumor, we dock each dream. Languages follow mouths of ships. My family came by night train -- identity paper stitched genealogy.

Lore become homing ground. Nobody opens mouths. Ships make families. Teeth get fixed.


Youngest of the family procured

documents; stories escaped.   You believe what is told about mine. My grandfather's youngest sister sold, no name. There is a village, inhabitants produce my name.

I watch clothes scrubbed, my life bears no dirt. My father came to eat steak. He desired well- done, couldn't make sense of cheese.

You say all this a lie.

On another continent, a man in the street beat

this other, we horrified, does this cross us into civilization?


Less bridge than gaps and leaps, for instance.

Midpoint, I decide to stop.

Explaining. These I translate

anyway simple tongue, my mother shrugs

the paper across a table cleansed of dinner.

Only explanation for how the monster became

woman. This language seeded by orphans. No roots, no home. Flying words sourced from future, in colonies, dance clubs, night markets. What bought, source from scabs. Never easy, often make alterations in landscape. To leave means your base makes terrible sound, scrapings from coin. How you plant this language — false, grotesque — in young mouths. You water and feed them lucky eggs. How else to grow food.


Is the diasporic aesthetic -- a burning of each line follow a queer one.

 We sit at the end of the strand, holding onto air.

Tell me again each name in the bell, what breath left to use.

It is not, she tells me, public. I snip off the end, tuck it into the corner.

 Is the beginning not a cut.

When she turns back, nothing but air, hands, water.

Burning the family and the bridge. Leaving again as the sky holds on.

 nut, berry and skin.
Nothing I say can be easy after this, is too easy.

Though my eyes become pond, my tongue cut to sheath and


If there were a belly to this voice how would I mass this code  This clearbelled script

who welcome this deposit tongue double growing rains down from skin.

swarm into vehicle spawn   Specifically pluck

stall in stream my body inked   note from a strand

 path I sang my other in the calculating hair

collecting at flayed stream   in the generating body

 a skin floating on foam


let this seep away from sentence

dissident mouth

 tear apart syllable

pulped into page

 stretch cord

down body


when asked to explain

freeze, flight

fragment body

line of speech becomes sky

clipped limb

and down


How this poem became a storm, the only explanation withheld

then sentence

Not much more to say

except cut in half.

Do you still want

the half-formed

thing? Too much

the origin of the implanted tongue, the seeded words

no roots, no home

we grow them

the tongues of baby orphans

they rode each syllable down to breaking

they broke each mouth to bridge

concerns the beginning, what happens then.  Nobody leap, no

body escape.  All   routes paved with

In the future, when you visit my cornerstore, you will not

see flash.

In the landscape, we still water, feed the lucky eggs,


wait for the mouths to hatch.

They who will feed us, paper our dinners.

This is how I stop making, except cut in half.

Each explaining plants

a monster in the commonplace


In this rumor city, we fog dream. I stop making, cut in

half-Languages follow mouths, ships. Each explaining

plant a common monster

in the book of identities.

My family swallowed this night train. The Language never came back.