Jordan Stanley
Four dead giveaways my dad kicked the bucket
1. I hear the fresh-cut
lilies ticking, resent
the wilt confronting
my kitchen. I grip
the stems like rabbit
feet pre-skinning, hang
them in my closet
to dry, embalmed
moments of I love you
today, happy birthday,
I’m sorry for you. I slow
decay to a resting heart
rate, feel time wave
its tissue-white flag.
2. My tattoo artist says
I have tough skin,
and gender euphoria
incepts in collagen. I was
scuffed knee tomboy,
bloodied neighbor kid
noses, fucked in school
bathrooms, twisted torso
into dad’s vodka rag.
Mom calls me thin-skin
daughter, but a tattoo
machine needs two passes.
Bloodletting is love I know
best: sliced and entered.
3. I adopt six kittens and forget,
find them in the walls
of my childhood
home. I can’t pay for food,
a sitter, book a one-way,
trail the bender, can’t return
to the shelter unnoticed
as a clipped-wing life
in skyfall. I wake from this
nightmare again, my chest
a metronome keeping time even
as it slips away. Holding fear
with sound. Ear to the wall,
recalling how I was raised.
4. Mom finds a handgun
in dad’s closet, says Who
would’ve guessed?
Me. After his amputation,
after chemo failed, he said
I can’t do it anymore.
It’s a BB gun, but I know
plan Bs. What would she call
me? A son he never knew,
who imagines fading
into never-ending
footsteps, but promises
only vampire bats
of lily dangle in the dark.
lilies ticking, resent
the wilt confronting
my kitchen. I grip
the stems like rabbit
feet pre-skinning, hang
them in my closet
to dry, embalmed
moments of I love you
today, happy birthday,
I’m sorry for you. I slow
decay to a resting heart
rate, feel time wave
its tissue-white flag.
2. My tattoo artist says
I have tough skin,
and gender euphoria
incepts in collagen. I was
scuffed knee tomboy,
bloodied neighbor kid
noses, fucked in school
bathrooms, twisted torso
into dad’s vodka rag.
Mom calls me thin-skin
daughter, but a tattoo
machine needs two passes.
Bloodletting is love I know
best: sliced and entered.
3. I adopt six kittens and forget,
find them in the walls
of my childhood
home. I can’t pay for food,
a sitter, book a one-way,
trail the bender, can’t return
to the shelter unnoticed
as a clipped-wing life
in skyfall. I wake from this
nightmare again, my chest
a metronome keeping time even
as it slips away. Holding fear
with sound. Ear to the wall,
recalling how I was raised.
4. Mom finds a handgun
in dad’s closet, says Who
would’ve guessed?
Me. After his amputation,
after chemo failed, he said
I can’t do it anymore.
It’s a BB gun, but I know
plan Bs. What would she call
me? A son he never knew,
who imagines fading
into never-ending
footsteps, but promises
only vampire bats
of lily dangle in the dark.
Promise it’s not political
I got pregnant at 20
when I thought only women
got pregnant, thought I was
a woman--Mom clocked my
tits, mid-crash airbags, said I
should look
$800 worth of upset.
My boyfriend lorded sex like
rent and I was in the red for
six weeks after
an abortion. He needed
nudes, said don’t worry,
we still have blow jobs,
and I settled my debt
in the red-soaked sheets.
Yesterday, Andrew
said his wife wants a baby,
hates people wasting
their dream. That isn’t how
dreams work, Andrew.
Dreams are like bodies, you
only have yours
seconds before a world
claims it’s criminal.
I promised no politics,
but that isn’t how
promises work, Andrew.
Ask our government,
their big solution is
we still have blowjobs.
They can’t promise
a dream any more
than a mom with red
neckties in her mouth.
My body forsakes
mother and country--
neither were built for
me.
when I thought only women
got pregnant, thought I was
a woman--Mom clocked my
tits, mid-crash airbags, said I
should look
$800 worth of upset.
My boyfriend lorded sex like
rent and I was in the red for
six weeks after
an abortion. He needed
nudes, said don’t worry,
we still have blow jobs,
and I settled my debt
in the red-soaked sheets.
Yesterday, Andrew
said his wife wants a baby,
hates people wasting
their dream. That isn’t how
dreams work, Andrew.
Dreams are like bodies, you
only have yours
seconds before a world
claims it’s criminal.
I promised no politics,
but that isn’t how
promises work, Andrew.
Ask our government,
their big solution is
we still have blowjobs.
They can’t promise
a dream any more
than a mom with red
neckties in her mouth.
My body forsakes
mother and country--
neither were built for
me.
Jordan Stanley (they/them) is a queer and nonbinary poet and content writer in LA. You can read their work in Hooligan Magazine and South Broadway Ghost Society. Connect with them on Instagram @jaystanz.