This poem closes my upcoming chapbook. I feel very complicated about it. At the time of writing, things felt bright and hopeful. I had faith in the future. In the interceding time, I've lost the physical ability to do many of the things described in this poem.
I haven't been able to walk unaided in a year, let alone run. I wake up wound tight in the coil of grief possibly more than I ever have. I can't make turkey chili anymore because I can't cook without risk of hurting myself. I do weep when I can, which is often. I've always had a complicated relationship with singing, particularly as a trans woman with a naturally deep voice. At the time I had thought my greatest struggles with transness would be internal, emotional. I understand now my singing voice is political, is dangerous. Marks me as transgressive, an acceptable target. I try not to laugh too loudly in public because of who might be listening, who might be looking for a reason to enact violence on me or my loved ones. Maybe it says a lot more about me and my perhaps frivolous optimism and shelteredness at the time. I believed the world was a good and ultimately kind place that would share its love with you if you believed in it. Or maybe I've developed a poisonous cynicism now. I can't tell.
The kind of almost puerile understanding of "maintaining health" as the struggle of taking medications that I had ready access to on time. Of course "health" is now a much more both concrete and elusive thing that very visibly separates me from Healthy People. I am a Sick Person.
I still love this poem. Partially in a bitterly nostalgic way, a way that remembers the kind of hope I used to have, the belief in my fellow (cis, abled) humans that I took for granted. But partially because it demands that I confront that bitterness with honesty. Something didn't change in the world. Something changed inside of me, something broke and turned me into a more angry and cynical and resigned person. When I come back to this poem it demands of me that I accept that what changed was more myself than anything.
I hope that one day I can tell rumors about all the love I could have, again. Until that time, this poem and I will continue to antagonize each other.