Delilah, tonight

It takes so much out of you,

not the living, but the space between.

When it’s so cold clouds can’t form,

the sun sees everything.

            His hair like burning tassels

of what could have been piled up behind

a bus stop, snow white as magnesium

stacked like newspapers against every door

his body beneath too few jackets

watched only by the few visible stars tonight

and Mercury’s burnt glow, the one time

the absence of a cop car is missed.

            He lays down like a fact—

I flag down a cab and feel the earth turn,

enough drinks to warm my insides, vision

not blurred enough for me to pretend

not to notice.

Where is the yellow mane I once wore?

What can silver padded under eyes

tell about history? See, that one will

smash glass on a cold night, find

a form in the fracture, and this one

will choose life as a pale-spectre

instead of chalk or street architecture

I have been both.

                        Collapse

the pillars of my body, Samson,

the maleness I was born with—yes,

I was born with—you knew I would

betray and yet you let me play in rubble heaps,

make calls at public telephones orphaned

by their shelters. I run my hands through

the hair of night, feed tangles

of unwanted feeling to the razor.

            I’m not here, rather half

underway—becoming can be

its own fixture. Let not this heart

worry about that now, slide in

between the shadows, even

the snowbanks know a certain

kind of seeing.

Published online January 09 2020.

Jase Falk is a non-binary femme poet and trans historian living on Treaty One territory.


Emergence cover image

This piece was published in ‘Emergence,’ the Fall 2019 issue of CV2.

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