Burnt Popcorn
I never misgender myself, Unless Iβm standing in the kitchen with my mom,Β Cooking popcorn a bit too long So it sits on my tongue with that bitter-salt-char Only the two of us can stand.Β
When I was growing up,Β The kitchen was small enough to call it A confessional booth, small enough,Β To keep fathers and devils out of it,Β Small enough, That male intrusion felt like sacrilege.Β
One of these afternoons, I just know- Iβll come home to it expanded,Β Rugs pushing neatly into the living room, Cupboards organized by ingredientsΒ Instead of color.Β
Iβm not a woman, but part of me Will always be a little girl twistedΒ 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,Β When Iβm seasoning cast iron. I make tea and the loose lemongrass in Momβs cup Forms her daughterβs face.
Did you have prophecies too, Mama? OrΒ 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 Iβd become.
I used to identify as a girl, now,Β IΒ identify as a witch and a bastard. I call myself things Youβre too disgusted to utter out loud.Β
But sometimes, I miss using your wooden spoons to burn popcorn The way we both like. Iβd let you kick me off your countersΒ A thousand times if youβd just call me your son.
Dear Midwestern Daughter, Dear Midwestern Ghost.Β One of these days Iβll hand you the dread I shouldered like Judas and teach You just how I earned this name.
