If I get killed for reading trans poetry
in coffeeshops, paint my name across

the side of every building in the city. Make
my boy-name your crowbar, and wedge it in

tight underneath your statehouse. Etch each
letter into stone, knowing the rain and wind

will one day erase it. Let there be no funeral
procession, no escort, no police in my parade,

Turn parade back into riot. Say it ends here.
Remember the days before 1969, before

all the words we had to describe the weights
lodged against us, only stones and bars

with no windows. Remember the names
that no one ever taught you, and put mine

right beside theirs. If I get killed for reading
trans poetry at coffee shops, know that

I’m not sorry for anything except
the queer losses I could not prevent.