After I Was Mistaken for the Stripper While Delivering Barbeque to an All-White Bachelorette Party


If I had a stripper name, it would be “pork loins.” Marinated in my mother’s seasoning, I am mostly bone, but my butt is meaty. My neck is long, but you can still love me if you wanna brisket. In the eventual end, it will be my own doing. If I had a dollar bill for every human who wanted to see me naked… I would still be paying loans back. “Being wanted” was never simmered. I am the lamb’s wool and the wolf crying beneath thin skin. Lick between my ribs. Enriched blandness. I am best served with oyster sauce.


And there I stood
A piece of flesh
A bag of meat
Head in the crosshairs
Unknown terrain
Door closing behind
Young deer in the trenches
Stay motionless
Don’t make the first move
Kindled fire
Feet too warm
Apple between the teeth
Arrow pointed to the naval
Knives and forks
And forks and stomachs
Lack of fat
Sucked bones
Upside down
Blood draining
Serpent at my throat
Boiling rice
Serpent in my throat
Not clean enough
Serpent down my throat


Twenty-six jewel-studded cowboy boots circle me,
tongues glistening in the spur of heat.
Is this what being wanted should feel like?
Is that what being a sacrifice smells like?

To fold confession:

“when yr immigrant alters / a body / we did not make or exit”
Trans Issue 2015