Poem: Graveyard Hand

When I would walk through the huge graveyard,

that stretched and stretched

I felt excited for what would come after,

to turn a corner

and see those huge gates

and that green fence

with that big green gate

and everything held within.

Seeing the cartwheels and the footballs

so much chaos

that I was never a part of,

but always liked watching.

When I would walk through the green gates,

after the unending graveyard,

I would let go of the hand next to me and say goodbye for a while,

never understanding why one of the cartwheels was crying as their guidance hand walked away.

And hours went by, and it was fun.

When I would walk through the graveyard,

not so long anymore,

as I can see the end much closer now,

I would clutch the hand next to me a bit tighter,

and be worried for what was after that corner,

because the gate was still huge

with the green fence

and the tall, big green gate

but instead of longer,

I noticed how much taller things were.

I never could be a cartwheel,

I couldn't even be a wheel,

and I didn't like the football

but I liked the short hair

and the flat chest

and everything

but I liked twirling too.

It was okay.

By the end of the graveyard, are we already there?

It's too short now, and I liked it when it was unending

and I could clutch that hand

that's not there anymore.

All the cartwheels would roll away from me

and I still looked at the short hair and twirling and didn't know what to do.

Deciding to be called anything but what I was

finding that being the opposite was being the same

but the same was the opposite of what I wanted—

head spinning—

where even am I—

I've been twirling so long

the hair getting shorter

but never enough

and it's never deep enough

I can barely feel vibrations

and the laugh is gross

and I like twirling

but I hate the chest

and now I've stopped twirling

and nothing

is

different.

And now I'm to move on to bigger gates and taller gates.

no gates but high walls

and buildings.

And I still don't know if I like twirling

but these hips are too wide.

And now I'm being tortured

every few weeks

for being this thing I hate

with confusion underneath.

I want that hand back, just like that cartwheel, to take me back through the graveyard

all over again.