Three Fragments of
Coming Out/
Betrayal
parts of a multipart poem
Justin BURNELL
Number 14.
Oil smoke pours up from under the sloshes/ of the wavy mississippi. You trounce your long legs/ past the bank and reach down. You say/ it is a hawk and you pull up/ a burning hawk by its broken beak/ Out there, the land and water/ we cry for what we lost/ but not to each other because/ it’s always been hard for each of us to speak/ the unsaid pasts haunting us/ I hope they aren’t all mine
You pitch back the bird/ The fire cascades in spiral shush on the river/
Used to be the riverwalk/ was burned and barred. We latched/ our way down into the wreckage/ Behind us now is the shining cement/ the slap of flip-flops/ and the happiness of family light/ This makes it harder to love/ unhappier to live/ and you say, wait. hush up for a sec/ Your hands crinkling the deli paper/ say it is time to eat. In the/ mayo the fried nuggets of fish spell/ out a message in our code/ we read and we chew away/ what we have tried to write.
I haven’t tasted the breading in so long.
You laugh at my idiot grin.
The hot sauce burns/ my lips. And I work my feet in/ the river gravel.
At these moments/ I retreat into description. The tiny/ shells, still burning oil/ ruining the clear sky/ The angle of your arm/ the pre-wrinkle of skin/ on your biceps reminding me/ you are older/ The trash you left reminding me/ age isn’t nothing.
The cool race of my pulse/ under my skin like a blade/ dangerous and slippery as a snake whispering/ My throat as dry as a brushfire/ I speak/ My mother was a man once/ She was a man/ when she told me/ she wanted to be a woman/
Bull/shit/ don’t you/ fucking lie/ to me—you say it/ spiked with spittle.
The pause of the world/ the moment the sky breathes/ the air to life/ I hide there under you/ in a place of disbelief/ because once you’ve been unsettled/ you stay unsettled.
I tell the story to the river/ the sky/ the gravel and shells./ You listen along/ I think. Of a time in a grocery store before/ you knew me. When/ I was a child/ And I trailed behind my Mom who was/ my Dad/ that night was one of the first/ times for us to be/ out in the world as she/ wanted to be and would be/ eventually. I got so excited/ by a pineapple on a isle/ tropical as a cartoon/ Running ahead, I didn’t look back/ I called back/ Dad/ with all the wind in my lungs. She/ wrenched my arm and wheezed/ What the fuck/ is wrong with you./ How do you answer that/ I didn’t/ I cried
That story/ shut you up/ the waves lap up and the fire burns/ across the water ahead of us/ a bridge/ to somewhere we could go/ but . . .
You pitch back the bird/ The fire cascades in spiral shush on the river/
Used to be the riverwalk/ was burned and barred. We latched/ our way down into the wreckage/ Behind us now is the shining cement/ the slap of flip-flops/ and the happiness of family light/ This makes it harder to love/ unhappier to live/ and you say, wait. hush up for a sec/ Your hands crinkling the deli paper/ say it is time to eat. In the/ mayo the fried nuggets of fish spell/ out a message in our code/ we read and we chew away/ what we have tried to write.
I haven’t tasted the breading in so long.
You laugh at my idiot grin.
The hot sauce burns/ my lips. And I work my feet in/ the river gravel.
At these moments/ I retreat into description. The tiny/ shells, still burning oil/ ruining the clear sky/ The angle of your arm/ the pre-wrinkle of skin/ on your biceps reminding me/ you are older/ The trash you left reminding me/ age isn’t nothing.
The cool race of my pulse/ under my skin like a blade/ dangerous and slippery as a snake whispering/ My throat as dry as a brushfire/ I speak/ My mother was a man once/ She was a man/ when she told me/ she wanted to be a woman/
Bull/shit/ don’t you/ fucking lie/ to me—you say it/ spiked with spittle.
The pause of the world/ the moment the sky breathes/ the air to life/ I hide there under you/ in a place of disbelief/ because once you’ve been unsettled/ you stay unsettled.
I tell the story to the river/ the sky/ the gravel and shells./ You listen along/ I think. Of a time in a grocery store before/ you knew me. When/ I was a child/ And I trailed behind my Mom who was/ my Dad/ that night was one of the first/ times for us to be/ out in the world as she/ wanted to be and would be/ eventually. I got so excited/ by a pineapple on a isle/ tropical as a cartoon/ Running ahead, I didn’t look back/ I called back/ Dad/ with all the wind in my lungs. She/ wrenched my arm and wheezed/ What the fuck/ is wrong with you./ How do you answer that/ I didn’t/ I cried
That story/ shut you up/ the waves lap up and the fire burns/ across the water ahead of us/ a bridge/ to somewhere we could go/ but . . .
Number 1.
Swamp gas signals through/ the trees like rotten teeth in the muck/ but inside faded glo/ -in-the-dark star stickered the ceiling/ Two fawns in a dark room/ gangly legs tangled/ on a patch of carpet/Children on the cusp/ of bare fucking/I wondered how/I could speak to you so you’d understand/ when I said it feels like/ we are the only two/ people in the world/ I was embarrassed and scared/
How I love/ you. My head has grown/ antlers.
The expose of your shiny, ivy belly/ my hand dipping. Bodies dripping/ with self-abuse. You say tell me something/ I can trust. In the puddles/ of our birth/ You can never tell:
In a cold kitchen/ on a saturday/ I was supposed to sleep/ through. I titter-tottered, rubbed my eyes/ in the doorway/ the industrial haze filtered/ by the stained window. Dad born/ in a red teddy/ head lifted to the anemic day/ A dark nipple graced the lace/ roses across his stubbled chest/ He said, Well/ you’re up early . . .
Lost in a gnarl/ of your new fur/ How do you feel/ older than me? Please/ speak
to cover/up this spill/
Shhhhh is a vibration/ without meaning but/ warmth from your salutary lungs
I nuzzle the sound in your underarm.
You say, After your father/ charged out/ on cocaine/ into the world’s traffic/ you mother changed/ her family name to the name/ of a body of water/ you could never find/ The word sounds/ like a young deer/ watching a bird caw/ as its wings cut clouds in the construction paper sky
These sounds are rings/ loping around us/ dying spin/ not yet settled
In the future you will/ burn this nest. The votive/ candle/ you’ll tip over as you nod/ off into a warm unsafe place/ our viscera a scorch mark/ your blood trailing as/ you crawl to the door . . .
Outside the mire excretes/ in bleats and creaks and trembling/ we don’t even try to stand/ Once more. One more rolling wet/ lunge of these little bodies into new little bodies/ blinded to the brilliance, the reeking wind/ blasting us forward.
On soggy streets we
wobble over the waters
the dusk crow flock
from a sky spliced dark
and orange, not day, not night
we come up
with a case of beer
on the dry rot stairs
you are a chef. I love
that you work with
your hands but your
kitchen is useless
your wife and my lover wait for us
in the lemon scent of
rationed power, the flicker
street light window
you hook a pinky over
the switch and smile,
Lights on for guests
Look at you, breakin
the law for me. The beers sweat beads
and the cocaine sweats
and our sweat is
power worn
You knife open cans
carve out picket fences
The nocks and nicks
scarred fingers
grease splatter
periods, still hot
I know they hurt
I covet your marks
of an honest man.
youhaven’ttoldthem?
youhavetotellthem
belches my lover,
dripping glow
The light browns out
in my eyes, stars of stage an . . .
Have you ever stopped time
becoming the dwindling filament
In a bulb? A beautiful moment
running like a heartshot deer
Blood flowing white
as old dog shit, eyes up
to the dappled leaves
These loves beg
for a story but listen
I don’t know the words
for anxiety and I crumble,
again, like old dog shit
My heart spurts from
an inherited hole my birth
mother left behind. On
Saturdays I watched a beautician
groggy from dragging the night
before, zap dad’s whiskers away
one at a time. Each one beeped
vanished in smoke. The machine
like a hornet sting on
my hairless arm. I fought
the tears because we were
still men after all. Then later
the beautician is dead
and my dad is a woman
Have you ever had expectations
of a room’s oxygen evacuating
A kitchen tilted like a ship
Teeth Marshmallowed
Chair legs chattering
fucking say something
Your breaths suck
like a knocked out kid come
up for air. Dry lips stuck
to dry tongues speak
That isn’t such a
big deal, you all say,
laugh open and free,
jovial as crows
calling to carrion
Have you ever felt
total synaptic reverse
squealing, smoking neural
lockup, shaking, pinned
in the powerless aftermath,
as the jaw of life wrenches
round to a meal?
How I love/ you. My head has grown/ antlers.
The expose of your shiny, ivy belly/ my hand dipping. Bodies dripping/ with self-abuse. You say tell me something/ I can trust. In the puddles/ of our birth/ You can never tell:
In a cold kitchen/ on a saturday/ I was supposed to sleep/ through. I titter-tottered, rubbed my eyes/ in the doorway/ the industrial haze filtered/ by the stained window. Dad born/ in a red teddy/ head lifted to the anemic day/ A dark nipple graced the lace/ roses across his stubbled chest/ He said, Well/ you’re up early . . .
Lost in a gnarl/ of your new fur/ How do you feel/ older than me? Please/ speak
to cover/up this spill/
Shhhhh is a vibration/ without meaning but/ warmth from your salutary lungs
I nuzzle the sound in your underarm.
You say, After your father/ charged out/ on cocaine/ into the world’s traffic/ you mother changed/ her family name to the name/ of a body of water/ you could never find/ The word sounds/ like a young deer/ watching a bird caw/ as its wings cut clouds in the construction paper sky
These sounds are rings/ loping around us/ dying spin/ not yet settled
In the future you will/ burn this nest. The votive/ candle/ you’ll tip over as you nod/ off into a warm unsafe place/ our viscera a scorch mark/ your blood trailing as/ you crawl to the door . . .
Outside the mire excretes/ in bleats and creaks and trembling/ we don’t even try to stand/ Once more. One more rolling wet/ lunge of these little bodies into new little bodies/ blinded to the brilliance, the reeking wind/ blasting us forward.
Number 12.
On soggy streets we
wobble over the waters
the dusk crow flock
from a sky spliced dark
and orange, not day, not night
we come up
with a case of beer
on the dry rot stairs
you are a chef. I love
that you work with
your hands but your
kitchen is useless
your wife and my lover wait for us
in the lemon scent of
rationed power, the flicker
street light window
you hook a pinky over
the switch and smile,
Lights on for guests
Look at you, breakin
the law for me. The beers sweat beads
and the cocaine sweats
and our sweat is
power worn
You knife open cans
carve out picket fences
The nocks and nicks
scarred fingers
grease splatter
periods, still hot
I know they hurt
I covet your marks
of an honest man.
youhaven’ttoldthem?
youhavetotellthem
belches my lover,
dripping glow
The light browns out
in my eyes, stars of stage an . . .
Have you ever stopped time
becoming the dwindling filament
In a bulb? A beautiful moment
running like a heartshot deer
Blood flowing white
as old dog shit, eyes up
to the dappled leaves
These loves beg
for a story but listen
I don’t know the words
for anxiety and I crumble,
again, like old dog shit
My heart spurts from
an inherited hole my birth
mother left behind. On
Saturdays I watched a beautician
groggy from dragging the night
before, zap dad’s whiskers away
one at a time. Each one beeped
vanished in smoke. The machine
like a hornet sting on
my hairless arm. I fought
the tears because we were
still men after all. Then later
the beautician is dead
and my dad is a woman
Have you ever had expectations
of a room’s oxygen evacuating
A kitchen tilted like a ship
Teeth Marshmallowed
Chair legs chattering
fucking say something
Your breaths suck
like a knocked out kid come
up for air. Dry lips stuck
to dry tongues speak
That isn’t such a
big deal, you all say,
laugh open and free,
jovial as crows
calling to carrion
Have you ever felt
total synaptic reverse
squealing, smoking neural
lockup, shaking, pinned
in the powerless aftermath,
as the jaw of life wrenches
round to a meal?
Justin Burnell is Appalachian, White Trash, Queer-spawn. He is writing a book about growing up with his trans mom. His work has appeared in Guernica, the Columbia Journal, Arkana Mag, and Queen Mob’s Tea House. He tweets @jmburnell