Two Poems by Jak Kurdi
/I Do Not Write Poems About Gender
However, when the day sloughs off and falls
to the floor of my bedroom, it looks like dread
and a binder – a spandex and canvas fabric
masquerade – which only agrees to lower
its ligature from the contours of my ribs and lungs
when night declares, it is now safe to breathe.
Tchaikovsky’s Christmas angels, suspended
in gorgeous agony, remind me of this.
With battered bodies held together with only ribbon,
gel, and wire, they dance, sculpted and stiff
like marbled cupids, forced to find air
between the orchestra’s rests or through the eyelets
of their corsets, hoping the rib-throb does not leak
in salt from their eyes. I wish I did not seethe
each time the conductor cuts off their music
wings and they stand, human and panting
as roses flee commoners’ hands for a chance
to kiss their feet. I wish I knew how long
I must dance, breathless, in dim lamplight,
to unlace, unsew, unstick, or unwind the sensation
that I am merely an understudy in my own ballet.
Autumn Duck, Listening
Today, the trees have started boarding up
to prepare for the snap. They’re cinching
limbs and letting the wind’s gusts pluck
and toss each writhing leaf into
a haphazard husk meant to jacket
the feet of the swaying, drowsy trees.
Each of my steps down the hill cracks
this autumn crust, as I ruffle my way
toward the pond bank looking for you,
the emerald headed mallard,
who politely totters away from your roost
to greet me and accept the small gift
of grape halves from my outstretched palm.
I say, after an accidental pinch
from a miscalculated snatch, fingertips
do look a little like grapes, it’s okay.
I remind you that I will be back each day
until the sky is too gray and mean,
and that I hope you don’t wince
when the wind’s bite finds the skin
beneath your feathers. I also tell you
Alex died – chose a pill or a gun
to help him sleep, they didn’t tell me.
It’s okay, though, you will be warm and fine
in your nest under that mangrove
blanket. You will wait for Spring’s
sun to rise and find you, huddled,
until its warmth washes over your eyes,
and I will do the same, ready
to see you again.
Author’s Note: “I Do Not Write Poems About Gender," draws inspiration from the myriad times when my transgender body fails to meet the expectations, or "dance the dance," of the world around me.
"Autumn Duck, Listening," is inspired by the ritual in which I found comfort after the death of a close friend. Yes, I actually talked to ducks. Yes, grief is weird.
Jak Emerson Kurdi, a recent Best of the Net Anthology nominee, has been recently published or has poems forthcoming in The Citron Review, Radar Poetry, Chautauqua, Inklette, The Writer's Foundry Review, and others. He lives in the Dallas, TX area with his wife, cat, and two dogs and works as a high school English teacher.
