The Comfort Ghosts

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.