SG Huerta
phone tag
my mom of all people had been avoiding
my calls all day &; when she finally called
me i picked up during the opening notes
of the bojack horseman theme song hey–
[name redacted for transgender reasons for dead-
name reasons for [spoiler alert] dead things
to come reasons] i’m sorry she said
& at that point i knew someone had died
& she said it’s about your dad
& i said did he do it himself
& i knew he had finally–
when my alive family made it to town someone
bought me vegan wings &; an oreo shake &; as i bit
into the artificial meat i thought surely this meal
is ruined surely every meal is ruined surely mi corazón
will follow every time my brain freezes
my calls all day &; when she finally called
me i picked up during the opening notes
of the bojack horseman theme song hey–
[name redacted for transgender reasons for dead-
name reasons for [spoiler alert] dead things
to come reasons] i’m sorry she said
& at that point i knew someone had died
& she said it’s about your dad
& i said did he do it himself
& i knew he had finally–
when my alive family made it to town someone
bought me vegan wings &; an oreo shake &; as i bit
into the artificial meat i thought surely this meal
is ruined surely every meal is ruined surely mi corazón
will follow every time my brain freezes
Some Issues
And a happy ending would be slitting my throat – Kid Cudi
Every day I accidentally click on
one of my many bookmarked poems.
Verde que te– I have to scroll
past Logan’s translation to get
to the Spanish. Sometimes I see
a picture of Lorca and share
a knowing look with him and contemplate
making fun of white folks less.
It’s about reverse colonization
or something like that. Every time
I’m around family, I feel layers of Gender
Confidence wane and then shatter.
You don’t know me, you know
my poems. (You don’t know
me, you know my armchair
autopsychoanalysis.) I’ve lived
a lifetime I don’t want my mom
to know about. She’ll never ask.
Poeming is a perk of inestabilidad
mental. This shit takes persistence.
My obsessive tendencies disguise
themselves as commitment. Most
of my ink is impulse. I can’t plan
for the future without getting lost
in it. One time a roommate mistook
my gender(lessness) for WomanLite,
mistook my dead-dad-depressed state
for an easy target, enveloped me in
weedhazy mornings and ginfuzzy nights
until I tried to follow my dad. Again.
Sometimes I still listen to me and my ex’s
song. Sorry, it’s between me and her
and the premature wedding playlist.
I hummed “Soundtrack 2 My Life”
three times before deciding on a title,
an epigraph. That most recent week
of floor-sleeping, my friend-soulmate
did a tarot reading for me. Inestabilidad
mental, the cards said. I don’t remember
what card. Pero él recuerda todo. Every year
I get scared near my birthday. Please. I can’t get old.
Dying young(er) would’ve saved my dad
from hurting
all those women. His kids,
even.
Every day I accidentally click on
one of my many bookmarked poems.
Verde que te– I have to scroll
past Logan’s translation to get
to the Spanish. Sometimes I see
a picture of Lorca and share
a knowing look with him and contemplate
making fun of white folks less.
It’s about reverse colonization
or something like that. Every time
I’m around family, I feel layers of Gender
Confidence wane and then shatter.
You don’t know me, you know
my poems. (You don’t know
me, you know my armchair
autopsychoanalysis.) I’ve lived
a lifetime I don’t want my mom
to know about. She’ll never ask.
Poeming is a perk of inestabilidad
mental. This shit takes persistence.
My obsessive tendencies disguise
themselves as commitment. Most
of my ink is impulse. I can’t plan
for the future without getting lost
in it. One time a roommate mistook
my gender(lessness) for WomanLite,
mistook my dead-dad-depressed state
for an easy target, enveloped me in
weedhazy mornings and ginfuzzy nights
until I tried to follow my dad. Again.
Sometimes I still listen to me and my ex’s
song. Sorry, it’s between me and her
and the premature wedding playlist.
I hummed “Soundtrack 2 My Life”
three times before deciding on a title,
an epigraph. That most recent week
of floor-sleeping, my friend-soulmate
did a tarot reading for me. Inestabilidad
mental, the cards said. I don’t remember
what card. Pero él recuerda todo. Every year
I get scared near my birthday. Please. I can’t get old.
Dying young(er) would’ve saved my dad
from hurting
all those women. His kids,
even.
SG Huerta is a queer Xicanx writer and organizer. They are a Roots Wounds Words Fellow, Tin House alum, and Poetry Editor for Abode Press. Their debut poetry collection Burns is forthcoming with Sundress Publications in 2026. Their work has appeared in Honey Literary, The Offing, Infrarrealista Review, and elsewhere. Find them at sghuertawriting.com, or in Tejas with their partner and cats, working towards liberation for oppressed peoples everywhere. They encourage you to find tangible ways to support Palestinian liberation from the river to the sea.