When we think of their deaths, talk of their lives;
talk of them walking down the street so proud
with legs yards long, and shouting shit aloud
to their best girlfriends. Not of men with knives

or guns, but women sitting in a bar
or watching television half-asleep
or young trans men pushing a needle deep
into each other’s flesh. We live so far

away most of the time from where they die
most of our siblings who we mourn today
there’s something false in anything we say
about their deaths. It’s more true when we cry.

Because their lives are ours – that saying’s true.
They said the things we say, breathed as we do.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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