that summer,

i thought i knew then
what it meant to be a man—
wanting cigarettes
& having none
& sweating like a horse,
saying yes ma’am to anything.

my boss had children
& the children called me sir.
they asked if i was a boy.
they asked if i really meant it.

days were long as ticker tape.

i broke in the shower,
my toes
crooked from my boots.
short, hot nights,
undecided thunder
discernable by smell.

checkerboard of burns
down both arms
& two minuscule pills
every morning.

i was negligible as a brother—
a dum-dum round on days off.
the kitchen
took all the shine from me.
i was no fun
& not worth a dime.

the nearest pharmacy
knew me by call
but never had it in stock,
even when i begged.
the sign outside:
do not dispose dirty needles here.

girls asked if i had a father.
girls asked what to call me.

children held cups
above their heads
& into them i poured
pseudo-juice.
the world was a sham
& i ran a rag
over its fraudulent face.

i had no sense of direction.
i had a microwave
& a small province of front porch.

i crucified wet laundry in my cabin,
was afraid to be looked at,
as though any action
was criminal.
& when mike touched me,
i was fearful of delight.

i quivered in the heat
& i sweat frigid in the cold.

what i desired, i couldn’t name,

the kitchen, at night, a tomb,
one red light blazing the exit.
sometimes i stood there,
in the mouth of the loading ramp,
my apron a black cinch,
my fingers an infected collection
of new skin ready to bleach off,
& i listened with my whole skull
to all the perfect
& imperceptible quiet.

---

silas denver melvin (he/him) is a trans masc poet from southern New Hampshire. his debut collection, grit, was released in 2020 with Sunday Mornings at the River. he has been published with Doghouse Press, Toyon Literary, WACK, SCAB, Visio, Beaver Magazine, & other outlets. he can be found on instagram @sweatermuppet3.0 and on Twitter + Tumblr @sweatermuppet.