My flesh
preserves his memories,
his desires, his unfulfilled dreams
of brotherhood. I carry him
like a mother, my boy who
loved to sweat under the stars.
I buried him myself
under lipstick and cloth
and the body I needed to survive.
Still, his little bones
jut under my cheeks
some mornings, and I remember
I don’t hate him. How can I
hate a lost child? Too many voices
are lost in the labyrinth
of puberty. At least he’s still alive
enough to see through
my eyes.
Dead boy, listen, I say.
The world is still precarious
for boys who wish to be girls
who like to shapeshift
into various forms.
Yes, but there is a language
for you now. A name for
your loneliness, my sweet child.
Won’t you skip through
our memories and see
you needed to not make it
so I could.
Angel Leal is a Mexican, trans/nonbinary writer whose poems have appeared in Strange Horizons, Fantasy Magazine, Anathema: Spec from the Margins, Radon Journal, and elsewhere. They’ve been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, the Rhysling Award, The Dwarf Stars Award, and are a co-admin of CALAMITOUS, a queer sci-fi and fantasy writing group. You can find them at angel-leal.com or floating around Twitter @orbiting_angel
