How we die

for bobbie + boys who like boys

I dream of a girl in a puff sleeve dress
delivering rhododendron death.
Every young bully in her cluster of bows
will descend from clandestine clouds and find us
in bed with the men we loved. The men
we wound up with in the end. We like them.
They are like long-haired butches but better.
They are spared the floral froth that must issue
from our holes, a passionate whipped cream
but reversed. Our men will mourn.
They’ll let their strawberries rot.
They’ll bury us as we died.
Nothing wrong with a thong in the grave.
Given more time, we’d have written
goodbye. Like, Bitch, you are my music.
Muse, you are my man. In the time we have left,
we think only of them. Their nail-polished hands
gripping our wrists. How we kissed during penetration.
How we asked pronouns only after our fourth date.
We wanted nothing more than a simple love.
And the girls were mad.
And the girls were mad.
We smell the rhododendron and
we sense the sky above.
The future becoming.

Elle is French for she

for elle + girls who like girls

You’re not a boy, but I’ve been writing to the theme of boy
crazy. You know I like girls, but mostly girls like you.

You said the wisest thing I ever said was that all trans people are
some kind of woman, which I shouldn’t stand by, but I do. It’s
like when J– said masks revealed the fact that all eyes are
feminine eyes. I thought that was deep. I think your eyes are
deep. They hold a darkness that says the lights are off, but
everyone’s home.

I recently encountered a nurse in snakeskin boots, some
footloose phlebotomist who told me: Fancy is one way to say
free. I could agree more, but I did agree. I thought of you. It’s
hard being a trans in the man’s world, but you always seem to
hold your ground. Or maybe it’s that we have no ground to
hold, and you’re off floating. Fancy. Me and my moneyed
gender want to take us to the type of mall where everyone can
just be themselves. I want to buy you a soda, watch you sip,
and scroll miles with that thumb if that’s the kind of distance
that makes you happy. I’m grateful you know the internet for
me. To me, the future is email, and I know you think that’s
cute. To me, it’s obvious you’re on it. You’ve got that
something. Something’s got to give because one day you’re
gonna write me the world, and our world is gonna give us
back.

Jayson Keery is based in Western Massachusetts. They are the author of The Choice is Real (Metatron Press, 2023) and the chapbooks Sleepover Nervous (Midnight Mass Press, 2024) and  Astroturf (o•blēk editions, 2022). A complete list of publications, awards, and interviews live online at JaysonKeery.com.