Tag Archives: love

Post the Third 2 or Sometimes all you need is a love poem


Like the scent of orchids


Like the whisper of baby’s breath



Sometimes I wonder why I love you

And remember the feel of your palm

As it moves up the inside of my


My breath catching


Like the way your lips travel

Around my navel

Causing thoughts of oceans to



Like losing myself your crevices

Trying to come up for air

But sinking deeper into the folds

Of your love

Sometimes the distances

Seem so insurmountable

The bridge between us

So narrow

A drop more perilous then


But still

You open to me

Allow yourself to be

Vulnerable for me

Let me hold your heart

In my own flawed


To murmur sweet words

And study the road maps to the

Core of who you


Sometimes all you need

is a love poem

Sometimes all you need

is that kind word

to remember your greatness

And sometimes all you need

are dreams and fairy tales

to survive


Most of the time

I need something more solid

Like the weight of your body pressed

Over mine

Or milk and honey spoon

fed under moon


Or that one time I had an asthma attack

And you came rushing

Held me close to your chest

And with your kiss

Made my heart


Sometimes I wonder

Why you love me

Then I write a love poem

And remember

Post the One Hundredth or On Radical Compassion

This is for the anon who asked what radical compassion means. For me, the common understanding of compassion is that we sympathize with those who are suffering and seek to ameliorate their suffering. Because of their suffering, they are deserving of our pity. We feel bad of them and so we do what we can to help. And while this is all well and good,  there is a very shallow understanding of the root of suffering or why people suffer. Put in another way, regular compassion just seeks to make someone feel better. It is a Pollyanna, “lets all just get along”, “you poor thing here is a cookie” response to suffering. It is individualistic and fails to see the bigger picture. It sees suffering as an unfortunate occurrence that exists in a vacuum that lacks context. Regular compassion is silent on why people suffer.

And those who experience suffering have access to this type of compassion only if they behave in appropriate ways. In other words, you only get compassion if you play nice and don’t make anyone uncomfortable.

Radical compassion, on the other hand, stands in solidarity with those who are suffering. It examines the interpersonal, systemic, institutional and structural reasons for suffering. It seeks to locate the individual sufferer within the greater social context. It understands that suffering is systemic and that those under more axises of oppression generally suffer more. Radical compassion seeks to challenge these causes of suffering and allows the sufferer the freedom to react and engage with their suffering in anyway that they see fit. In other words, those who are suffering are allowed to rage and scream and be angry and still receive compassion. Radical compassion does not pity the sufferer. Rather, it seeks to fight with the sufferer to end suffering.

Radical compassion seeks to end suffering on a systemic level. Regular compassion just seeks to help out the individual sufferer. And that is ok, as far as it goes. But I don’t think it goes far enough.

Another way to describe radical compassion is by saying that it is fiercely gentle. It has your back and understands where you are coming from and seek justice with you.

Post the Ninety-Seventh or Make Love to Rage

The words

Born from my fingers

Glitter like blood

In flames

Forming visions

That cause my heart

To freeze

Wings alight

On the lids

Of my eyes

Femme Fierceness

She says

Is a birthright

To power

And sorrow

Dressed in the color

Of glory

Walking through worlds



With eyes the darkness

Of space

Chief Spence


In her tipi

Filled with legacies

Of betrayal

Her belly

As empty as the promises


By white men

But she stands


With iron encased will

Femme Fierceness

Can topple


I want

To get married

To shields and spears

Wear a wedding dress

Made of morning stars

And a veil

Of daggers

Make love to rage

And bust open

Across six continents

Revealing the dismembered

Bodies and



Holding it all

Femme Fierceness




My friend

Stands there


Trying to




That mark her

Mascara running

Nose bleeding

I hold her


The most exquisite

Revenge against rapists

Femme Fierceness

Does not




Is a familiar


The threat of violence

A constant companion

Pale shadows that

Dance across my body

Following me down


Up streets

Into home


Soaked sheets

Twist around

My face

Femme Fierceness

Feels fear


Never backs


I am

A fierce femme

A big

Scarlet fuck you

Ejaculated across

Masculinity’s face

They do not own

Me and my

Silence cannot be


Post the Ninety-Third or A Breath of Chocolate

Anger comes easy. Anger is something that I’ve always known. It is a hard, bristling carapace that keep out things that hurt me. A scab that has been ripped off and reformed so many times, I no longer feel it. But even still, I don’t mind it. It has its uses. It keeps me safe. I thought that I was impenetrable. Until I met him.

The day was hot. The kind of hot that gets into your lungs and brain. Sluggish heat that makes it hard to breathe and even harder to find motivation to do anything but lay on the floor like a salamander. Stretching one’s limbs so that one can find some whisper of coolness. And yet, the cafe still managed to be filled with regulars. Yuppies and hippes rubbing shoulders in a house turned coffee shop. The wooden floors worn from years of domestic and buisness related traffic. Art of varying degrees of skill adorned the forest green walls. I had just finished cleaning the counter for a second time and I stared at the clock, willing it go faster. It was with relief, than, that he was here. Finally something to do.

“What can I get you, sir?”

He stood with his arms crossed as he studied the menu. “What’s good here?”

I rake my eyes across his body, up and down once, smirking “Well, I really like a tall cup of hot black coffee. Drink you- I mean, it, all day”

He gives me a look that says, you-are-either-trying-really-hard-or-are-you-this-corny-all-the-time.

“I also make a mean Americano. Two shots poured over ice, with a cool breath of chocolate.”

He smiles, “Sounds refreshing. But does it taste as good as it sounds?”

I lean over the counter, trying to emphasize my clevage, “You’ll just have to taste it to find out.”

He licks his lips, looking slightly uncomfortable. “I’ll take one, then.”

I smile wickedly and set about making his drink. I steal covert glances at him over the espresso machine as I grind the coffee and pour the shot, hot and fresh. I noticed the way he carried himself, how he interacted with his surroundings. Gentle, yet I could tell that he did not suffer fools. He seemed cuddly but I knew he could cut me just as easily. It hit me, he was trans*.

The ice melts slightly as I pour the hot shots over it and drizzle the chocolate. I can say without ego that it was probably the best drink I had ever made.

“Here you go, sir.” I say, as I pass him the coffee. Our hands brush past each other, his rough with shared history, mine soft with hidden experiences. He grabs my wrist tightly, turning my hand so that he could examine my palm. He looks up and our eyes meet. A shiver runs down my spine.

“Any-Anything else I can grab you?” It’s my turn to be slightly uncomfortable. And yet, I was strangely aroused. Who was this man?

“No, thank you. How much is it?”

“It’s uh… On the house.”

He smiles, “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Hey, what’s your name?”


“Säyn…” I repeated, feeling the way his name sounded on my tongue. “I’ll be seeing you.”

We saw each other a few more times, that summer in 2010. I was working at this queer coffeeshop and he would come in every once and a while, always when I was working. He would get the same thing and I would always give it to him for free. We would flirt a little, chat about small things. We even exchanged numbers at one point. But for some reason, we never got around to getting together outside of the shop. Sometimes he would come in with his partner, sometimes he wouldn’t. But every time he came in, he smiled and my chest got a little tight.

And then I left, went back to Boston. I reenrolled in school and got several part time jobs. It was a cold winter and I knew with even more certainty that Boston was not the city for me. I was going through the motions but I was never fully present there. I kept looking for a way out, for something different. I knew I need to return to Austin. And I didn’t see him for almost a year.

Its September 2011 and I’m back in Austin working at a queer youth community center. But my time there as an organizer is a story for another time.

At the time, I was leading an effort to restructure the organization and so we need a space to hold our meeting. One of my co-workers offered her home, which she had recently moved into. We, of course, agreed. It was a cool, clear night and the place was packed with young people, adults and queer organizers. I was in the middle of facilitating a discussion about strategies and tactics when the front door opens and who walks in but Säyn.

I stand there dumbfounded, mouth agape. Here was someone who I never thought I would see again, walking into a meeting that I never expected to have.

Once the meeting ended, I moved quickly.

“Hey, Säyn!”

He smiled, eyes brightening with recognition. “Hi, Morgan. Its good to see you again.”

“Its good to see you too. What have you been up too?”

“This and that,” He replied vaguely “You?”

“Oh you know, saving the world, one queer youth at a time.” I returned slyly. I knew that I would have to chase a little harder if I wanted to get anywhere with him.

He laughed, “Step up from slinging coffee, then.”

“Several. We should kick it sometime soon.”

“No doubt. No doubt. I’m having a music video release party this Saturday. You should come.”

I smiled, “Wouldn’t miss it.”

The next 4 weeks were a blur of late night coffee, chain smoking and iPod make out sessions. We would always find some sort of pretense to see each other. The second night we saw each other, he stole my lighter. He said it wasn’t intentional, but I knew better. He would pick me up after work and we would be up until 4 or 5 o clock in the morning, talking about everything from radical politics to the way we liked our Brussels sprouts cooked.

I remember being in his car on those first few nights. He said to me, “I’m in an open relationship. But we can’t have anything serious. This is just casual.”

Famous last words.

For those first weeks, we didn’t kiss. We barely had any physical contact at all. The first night I slept over at his house, I made sure to sleep stark naked. But we didn’t fuck. We didn’t even cuddle! At first I was worried that he was only interested in a platonic relationship but then I would look into his eyes and feel how his body reacted to mine. I knew he wanted me, could feel the intensity of his ardor for me. But it was one of the few times that anyone wanted my whole self, not just my body and what it could do for them.

It was a strange and not unpleasant sensation, feeling that want for me that was deeper than the skin.

I, of course, was throughly in love. Or at the very least, in very, very, very deep like. But one thing was certain; there was nothing casual between us.

He quickly and insidiously worked his way beneath the prickly steel that I encased myself in. He eased his way gently into the soft chinks of my armor, pried them loose and tranquilized the raw, chafed skin underneath. By the time I noticed that he had gotten past my defenses, it was already to late. He had me.

And I had him.

We had each other and our passion for one another opened my eyes to knew ways of being. Suddenly, I was thinking about babies and houses and what particular dish I wanted to cook for dinner and would you mind if we used the purple tablecloth tonight? I, the jaded radical who laughed at the thought of anything so soft as love, was in love. But the open scorn I had for love was merely a facade that masked my desire to be soft with someone. I would wake up some nights cold with the longing to have someone near me. Anyone to press their tender flesh against mine and share those intimate parts of myself. Something different than the raw, animal fetishization that I was used to.

I longed to be seen. Wholly and holistically seen.

And so I was. Seen with a clarity that still scares me, excites me, makes me smile. Sweet, secret smiles that arise unbidden, tugging the side of my lips up in spite of myself.

Anger still comes easily. But the contours of my anger are angled differently, today. Sharpened in some places, tempered in others. Encased in suppleness.

Being loved in spite of my fear has allowed me to breathe.

Post the Eighty-Eighth or Juntos

Rough edges

Grate across each



Words fall

Like drops

Out of your mouth

Into sore wounds

I never knew what love looked like

But you showed me

The inside of your flesh

And I remembered




Love is only ever

What we give

The sun lies

Across the mountain

Paining the sky crimson and gold

I turn to see

Your face outlined

In scrub bush and nettle

Your lips the color of


Qué es el cariño

Entre dos cuerpos

Constantly atropellado by the world

When the only sure thing

Is death?


Keep your palm pressed

Against mine

And don’t be afraid

Porque estamos


Post the Sixty-Seventh or Distance


That place where time and space meet

Which is infinitesimally small

And infinitely large

Boundless possibilities exist

In the distance between two people

The distance between two hearts

It is in that distance that we see ourselves


In the other

In that distance

Where we find ourselves

Quite by accident

Unsure of how we got there

Not knowing where to go from here

But aware that this distance

In this moment

Is precious

Unlike anything we have ever experienced


Like the view of New York City from the Empire State Building

Feeling like one false step could sending you plummeting

And yet knowing that you are safe


Like the first glimpse of the endless expanse of the Pacific

Knowing that you could drown in those dark, unfathomable depths

But feeling like you could float to islands unknown

Where sweet fruits and soft sands await

It is in this distance between you and I, my love,

where I meet myself

And realize that I have always known you

Always loved you

It is in this distance that I

Realize that goddesses could die

Empires could fall

Worlds could crumble

lovers could move on

And I will still be here

Loving you

As hard and as fiercely as the day we met

Regardless if we are fucking or not

Because you are my family

And if we aren’t there for each other

To celebrate our victories


When the distance between hatred

And our bodies close

Than who?

Post the Sixty-Sixth or Why I am a Fierce Bitch

Every morning I paint my face

With three words stuck on repeat




Every day I pound the pavement

With three words stuck on repeat




My look is my life

And my walk keeps me safe

Because I know what happens to young brown

Trans women

If we are not being harassed


Or killed

Then our voices

And the narratives that we have written for ourselves

Are being ignored


Or invalidated

Whether I am at a queer party

Or walking home late at night

I need to be read

And read well

Perhaps that’s why I get so frustrated

When the brush doesn’t do precisely as I demand

I look in the mirror knowing

That to fuck up

Is to take a risk I can’t afford

Perhaps thats why my face

Is carefully sculpted into two expressions

“Don’t fuck with me”


“Really don’t fuck with me”

I look into the eyes of others knowing

That to show weakness

Is to invite death

They were surprised

When he told them that I was a sweetheart

He told me

I see you

And I am shocked

That anyone has the eyes

To truly see me

And what a blessing that is.

Every night I lay next to my lover

With three words stuck on repeat




Post the Sixty-Fifth or Love like Hurricane

His love is like a hurricane

All fire and fury

Honest in its intensity

And inexorable in its execution

A hurricane

The roaring gale force winds ripping away all those thoughts

That do me harm

The rising waves washing me clean

With cold salt water and brine

Of those conceits that blind me

From seeing beauty

The torrential pounding rain changing the landscape

Of my skin

So that scars become sublime

And stretch marks become exalted

The crashing flashes of lightning


Those dark slumbering places

And I am electrified

My skin tingling in anticipation of his touch

 My body ridged with the thrill of his hand on my thigh

My body aching with white hot fire for his lips upon mine

The calm serenity of the eye

Reflecting me back to myself

And I rejoice

For what I have is legendary

And you would give all of this up?

Post the Sixty Fourth or My Man

I could never marry a white man

I’m too smart

Too brown

And too uppity.

My man though

He is as black

As the iced Americano I drink every morning

2 shots

Extra sweet

Hold the cream


Like the space in between

The stars that bloom in my mind

Whenever I enter him


Like the soft wetness inside of his mouth that I explore

With my breath


Like the dilated pupil of my eye

(Open with eagerness)

 As I lower my face to that

Ambrosial joy between his thunderous thighs

 My man

He is tough

Like the wild buffalo

Surviving in spite of those who would commit genocide against the Sacred


Like the grass that grows between the cracks in the sidewalk

Thriving in spite of the crushing weight of manmade cruelty

And cruel fate.

 My man

He is gentle

Like the bracing waves of the warm Caribbean

The clear waters belying a depth unsurpassed.


Like full moonlight filtering through a curtain of clouds

Illuminating the path before me

The dance of shadow

Exposing magic that I hitherto had not known

I had possessed.

My man is

Fiercely Sensitive

I know he would go to the ends of the earth

Walk along the bottom of the ocean

And take the next flight off this planet

To plant a single kiss upon my brow.

 He would take out whole zipcodes

Call in all favors

And rewrite reality itself

To protect me from harm.

He loves me hard and true and pure

A love that blazes like diamonds

And burns like ice.

A love that can make you cry and laugh and cum

All at the same time.

A love that even the Gods are envious of.

A love that heals.

And I know he will love me until

The cows he don’t have

Come home.

He will love me till the sky falls

The earth busts open

And white people stop complaining about reverse racism.

I know he will love me

As I love him.

They asked if he made me feel like I woman

I replied, No

He makes me feel human.

Post the Forty-Sixth or Explosions

It’s like a fish hook

Caught on my heart

The dancing rhythm in my chest


The constant tug of the


AKA the Universe

And it fucking hurts


And, particularly, at night

When the empty plane of my bed

Reminds me of his body against mine

Of the space that is now there

Where once it was filled with peaks of heartbreaking beauty

And valleys of staggering grace

Grace that I was privy too

Beauty that I couldn’t believe I could witness

And live

So that tugging,

Which drives me to such desperation,

Catapults me into such soaring heights.

There are moments, many many moments,

Donde mi corazón

se siente como que va a


Into a thousand tiny doves.

Or perhaps a million little dandelions

Their seeds scattering to the four winds

And taking root in the other parts of my being.

Only to return again

Back to the center

To rest on that Angler’s hook


“This is home.”

I can’t believe I left.