They are all here,

generations of elder queers with crooked hands

like trees. I shake my whole self at the giant’s trunk.

The forest glistens. A world built on invisible

shimmers suddenly in the light.

If only the roots could see the budding sky.

If only I could garden my history so deep.

This is strength.

This is pride.

To be burned, emptied.

To stand tall, anyway, play host to new branches, fresh green,

a forest with a single

root system.

Whatever they say of us, let them say,

we didn’t do this alone.