the dog spreads her body
across the couch’s head–
slung about awkwardly.
this is her position
of comfort.
and as I listen to her breathe,
I think of you and wonder
if you still fear loving
someone who isn’t afraid
of loving you.
Category: Women
Carrying a “Male” Name
Musical Selection: Kanye West (& other Lyricists)|Monster
An audio-poetic rant
People have been “misgendering” me
before calling it out was a thing.
I carry a “male” name; one that typically
appears before I do.
I cannot tell you how many times
I have said, “But I am a woman,” or
“It’s actually Tree•Maine.”
If I had a dollar … You know the rest.
I’ve lived a life of correcting people
about who I am and how I exist
before I was old enough to vote.
Before I was old enough to
sort out who respected me vs. who
just wanted to enunciate two syllables
the way they wanted to.
There is no patience in
learning one’s name or the
person tasked with enduring it
until the grave embraces them;
not in this country.
Here is something I’ll share
for free; if a person asks you
to pronounce their name correctly,
do it.
If a person asks you to use
their nickname, do it. (Chances are,
they’re tired of correcting you.)
If you have assumed the person
is whatever gender you’ve envisioned
for them before meeting them
because you thought their name
will lend you someone else,
“That is a YOU problem.”
Fix it.
Today.
**An earlier version of this piece appeared via ACG’s Instagram “stories.” Published in A Cornered Gurl via Medium.
**I am NOT a Kanye West fan; Nicki Minaj & Jay Z’s verses are my favorites.
Coupling of a Different Kind
I’m the person who makes her feel better.
and it’s light and airy and innocent …
there are days that pummel her
into submission, and I sense them.
I am ready with a “Hey, are you okay?”
and the response is an honest one —
one that lets me know, she’s holding
on, too.
“I am trying to be.”
I know that place.
I live in that place more than
I care to admit,
that place is a place where
we find ourselves lost and
wandering aimlessly through
time and actions, and if anyone
is available to save us, we’ll
run straight to them.
she doesn’t need saving, though.
she needs a listener.
I listen.
I crack jokes.
I talk about the things in life
that make no sense and we agree
as we work and she monitors
my time on calls and I shift
from one aspect of work to another.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” I say. how we can
struggle together and open up
long enough to let the other in?
she agrees. we can chat for
hours about things that crush us.
I know where she’s been.
I know how I got through it,
how I am getting through it, and
we’re both walking different paths,
but it feels like our destinations
aren’t too far from one another.
I offer her a ride.
“Since we’re headed in the same direction.”
there was a wall there — there was.
I have always had a knack for chipping
away at them and sliding through
undetected, and before you know it,
one’s bare before me — their past becoming
one with mine.
it is an amazing thing to see someone
walk away from themselves, pull up
a seat next to another ailing heart,
and release like there will be no tomorrow.
she’s so beautiful when she’s fragile.
she’s even more so when she’s strong.
the hard exterior comes through
on days when patients have gotten
their full fill of long hold times and
the glitches of shoddy software can
eat through the cores of our patience.
I can see her falter — lose her sense of peace.
And I step in — “Are you going to make it?”
a simple question returns a simple answer.
and we move on from that place
that can turn into darkness if
I do not send enough light, but I do.
and she waits for it.
and even when my darkest days
salsa right before me, I can
remove my stilettos, slip my
gown over my head, sling my
jewelry across the room, and
invite her to get naked with me.
and there in the most silent
of silences, we stand — free
of inhibitions, wary no more,
aware that whatever else may come,
we have the tools to
conquer it.
Originally published in Intimately Intricate via Medium.
a depressed state
another autumn
musical selection: bilal|love poems
a reflective poem
autumn is still in
the infant stages, but
I can feel the pull of
old things being made
new, and I wonder if
you’ve found work in
the industry you’d be
applying to for nearly
a decade.
I want to tell you I’m
still searching, but
that is a lie. I have
discovered peace in
this section of the
medical field after
twenty years, and there
are better opportunities
ahead.
there is a woman
who speaks about
authenticity and showing
up in spaces where empathy
no longer has a seat, and
I can’t help but be reminded
of your strong voice
and approach to all
things beautiful & just.
I am working on creating
a better me; therapy, stories,
and soldiering onward
with a senior dog who
still has the right
amount of sass to
suss out things and
people who
don’t belong around us
anymore.
we built a rocky foundation
on poetry and kinship,
and I am still out here
using words to clear
my head.
how much of this
is work and how much
of it is pleasure?
another autumn is here — I’m
greeting it with
old eyes and sketchy thoughts.
but it’s here, nonetheless.
Originally published in A Cornered Gurl via Medium.
I Thought I’d Forget All About You
Musical Selection: Bilal|When Will You Call?
A Lamentation
But I was wrong.
I am wrong.
And every autumn pulls
up memories — I have tried
to forget, and I find myself
burying those memories
deeper into my mind for them
to arise at the worst time.
It’s the children …
The children push more
pain into my heart than
anything else.
How are they doing?
What activities do you have
them in after school now?
Your oldest should be going
to college …
College. It’s almost hard
for me to say this out loud.
I have missed three years of
seeing their faces, hearing their
voices, and learning about
their lives as new
things occur.
I have resorted to denying who
I am; who I was, but
the pain in my heart about
the children does not lie.
It’s there. It is a constant
reminder of what I have lost.
And as I weave through every
year — no longer your toy;
no longer wrapped up in my
own head about what we
could have been — what I wanted
us to be, seasonal depression
sneaks up on me with
your face as its representative.
I am weak.
I am.
I will say this with
no shame.
I am weak, still, for you.
The dog hops up in
my lap — reminds me it’s
time for her to relieve
herself, and I don’t feel
like moving from a spot
I’ve cozied onto in the
chair.
She still has some
energy even though she’s
past what some say is
too long for a dog to live — she
can spit fire if I am
not quick to meet her needs.
And isn’t that how you were?
Isn’t that what made us
cling to one another?
Your need to order and my
need to take orders.
Weren’t we too blind to
see it could never work
between two women who
were writers so full of
embellished stories?
I thought I’d forget all
about you, yet three years later,
you appear. And no amount
of therapy is sweeping you away
from my heart’s door.
I wanted more.
I couldn’t have it.
I never would have.
At every turn, you would
choose him.
You chose him.
And really, he was the
best decision. My mind
knows this — how about
telling it to my heart?
A Cornered Gurl 
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