& on my way out of the capitol, I see 2 trans boys kissing
They lean their limbs on the big white building.
In the midst of heavy hands with amber gavels
ripping our lives away, while boys in cowboy hats
& ripped jeans–the kind Bri Bagwell would deem
faux cowboy, while reporters ask me
what will you do now that you are illegal,
while meritless tears fall from the most beautiful girls
you’ll ever see, they swap genes. They print themselves
on the side of our state’s mazey hell trap like
the scene needed to see what Texas means.
They bloom themselves in a sea of sad enbies.
It would be perfect if it wasn't so sad. I would be something
if I didn’t have to tell you this. Love me like a kiss
stolen from an ex at our biannual death
match. Miss me like the hand that cradles a blue
lover’s back while fire burns through pink light.
KB BROOKINS is a writer, cultural worker, and artist from Texas. They are the author of How To Identify Yourself with a Wound (Kallisto Gaia Press 2022), Freedom House (Deep Vellum 2023), and Pretty (Alfred A. Knopf 2024). KB is a 2023 National Endowment of the Arts fellow. Follow them online at @earthtokb.