Burnt Popcorn
I never misgender myself, Unless I’m standing in the kitchen with my mom, Cooking popcorn a bit too long So it sits on my tongue with that bitter-salt-char Only the two of us can stand.
When I was growing up, The kitchen was small enough to call it A confessional booth, small enough, To keep fathers and devils out of it, Small enough, That male intrusion felt like sacrilege.
One of these afternoons, I just know- I’ll come home to it expanded, Rugs pushing neatly into the living room, Cupboards organized by ingredients Instead of color.
I’m not a woman, but part of me Will always be a little girl twisted Up on the floor of the kitchen chewing Mango pits and getting caught underfoot.
Sometimes I see her in the reflection of clean pots and pans, When I’m seasoning cast iron. I make tea and the loose lemongrass in Mom’s cup Forms her daughter’s face.
Did you have prophecies too, Mama? Or Is that something you shed like a Second skin when you started going to that Fundie church for a boy with blue-grey eyes and A haunting grin? I want to know
If the ashes from his cigarette falling Onto your pregnant belly revealed the Spiteful bitch I’d become.
I used to identify as a girl, now, I identify as a witch and a bastard. I call myself things You’re too disgusted to utter out loud.
But sometimes, I miss using your wooden spoons to burn popcorn The way we both like. I’d let you kick me off your counters A thousand times if you’d just call me your son.
Dear Midwestern Daughter, Dear Midwestern Ghost. One of these days I’ll hand you the dread I shouldered like Judas and teach You just how I earned this name.
