LGBTQ+ Poem: Morning Driftwood, by Tristan Moore

He was tension under explosion,
wafting enough heat to kiss,
and we gasp, as if pausing
for the secret pulled from his hips.

I caress the same lines he drew hours ago
so carefully to outline body’s borders.
I recreate the wide curves his hand took
and I carve out this morning’s driftwood.

I write this to you in the dark
because. even at eight, I knew
dark breaks down the lines of body,
and I can think again.

I think of the day I choked, stopped
breathing the air afforded to children,
as mis abuelos watched me grow up
on FaceTime. Borders have a way
to mangle your family, ring out tears
until your face bears the
engraved streaks of ambiguous loss:
We mourn for those not yet dead.

My mom didn’t talk about this
painful poisoning that kissed our lives,
bruising me with purple lips, but she sits
on the dining room bench with the yellow midnight light.
as I softly rest my head on her lap, she caresses
from my arm to my face, closing my eyelids for the last time,
letting me drift into slumber.
To her, I am another child lost to borders.