The Uncle buried beneath the tree.
There’s a place that exists
And my self,
Beneath the surface
They spread like wildfire,
Burning us, like dead tree stumps.
“Auntie’s a man! Don’t you see his XY chromosomes?
A man named Tom and that is all– that is all!”
“She’s a woman! DNA doesn’t matter, SHE
is not like any male I recall.
…And her name’s Nell,
S H E
never was ‘Tom’.”
“Stop it!” Nell cried,
With him again:
“My name was Tom,
it hurts to say..
There’s baggage with it,
and hell to pay..
You can’t know what it’s like,
Living on edges so grey,
To carry the burdens of Uncle Thomas,
Auntie Nell never having her say!
What’s a scorned woman to do
With such burdensome men?
But kill them over
and over again?
He might rest in peace,
If you’d just let me live,
But instead here’s Uncle Thomas again,
Cursed by you to live among men. “
“THAT’S TRANSPHOBIC!” one activist cried,
“THAT’S MISOGYNISTIC!” another replied.
Auntie Tom walked onward with a sigh,
Back into the place between herself and her self;
Like brambles in time,
Cutting through, and through and through,
Uncle Tom died:
And revived to be shed,
By Auntie Nell with her ever-waiting edge.
“Stay out of my spaces!” a woman cried through her lips
“Keep out of mine too, faggot,” boasted a man with his fists,
Twisting Nell into Tom
And Tom into Nell..
Contriving her soul
Into liquid-like hell;
Wringing it out, pouring
Into the void of themselves.
Cursed, they now carry on
With the truth of their lies;
Knowing the hells of Auntie Nell
And the heavens Tom will never find,
As a man who wants to, but just can’t die.