Kenan Ince, 2017 Lambda Literary Fellow

Kenan Ince, 2017 Lambda Literary Fellow



thank you all so much you beautiful beautiful people this first piece is called snow load my side works smooth silver face drained pressure collapsing onto eroded cheekbones under my skin cell after cell containing copies of grandpa's closet of starched white shirts American flag patches sewn on the short sleeves I used to make myself small curl into a ball with flashlights and yellow smoke drenched library book my face caressed by adjacent shirt tales in the books hardback walls but incantations for creating worlds always more room and small things my wearing mitochondria holding copies of grandma's chest doll parts which I glued together heads two torsos a benevolent creator God inside that room the glittering forest of my queerness sprouted my DNA stacked replicas of the old houses impossibly twisted staircase miraculously held together by wooden pegs bounded 4 feet above by wooden ceiling under which I squatted with Gameboy for hours after running down stairs I'd paused to stare in the globe where a troupe of porcelain ballerinas twirled soundless music a murmuration of flea clothes and gloves I'd like to throw open the walls the windows of my body let in the ion breeze but sometimes the walls are all to keep in the mini mirror and snow this one's called mollusks in my fantasies I'm always walking downstairs in my sensible flats arouses me the way that can be so easily slipped off their black skeletons crumbling in my closet until I am ready to give them flesh they are no animal bare as little as possible between me and the caress of the earth on my feet oh how Donald Trump would love for me to take them off and float through the halls behind him like a caveman sway how Donald's mouth would swell on the aerodynamic curved tip as I inserted my foot softly between his lips he would suck as into a spring out of the vital part of me and how he would gasp his lungs collapsing into the garden of his ribs his words scurrying before they are spoken from the shell of his mouth slashing some people did tell me about the dream where we are mark Cisco yes who lie down in alikum don't jungle and wake up without words again for the light industries or for the people we have come to save how the beetle forgot what he thought he knew and dreams himself and night herons and our lives were two stories we found bound and string in a street market in Toledo and warned us against false equals tell me about the dream where the mountain rivers flood the cities below and we're two raindrops who fall in and out of each other's grass how in letting go of each other we become a part of the bigger current tell me what you are planning to do when the revolution comes I for one will lean against you until my chest stops heating until the rain stops I can't read in the sky what's next tell me I'm don't believe throw the beetle and urine zoo come on Dante Marcos and I'm only your's as long as we keep telling each other stories tell me the rivers coming and have nothing to fear because I'm here at heart because I am on the mountain you are down there with the villagers always getting swept away by someone thank you very much [Applause]

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