In December we come to the townhouse on Willow Street; 

our Ararat with rats in the rafters.

Joy is our host and the closest thing to an elder we have, from the pre-internet age.

Aliyah arrives dressed as an American sage.

Violet and Violet come in, both with purple hair.

Camila is there; she’ll put a tattoo anywhere.

Nat has stubble and plays the bass.

Coraline’s dreads shroud her face.

Jone got off the juice.

Ada dances like a pagan cut loose,

and she says: Take this drink and hold it near

          They kill more of us every year

              My trans sisters, we are mystics, and we are young!

              My trans girlfriends, we know the taste of God’s tongue!

              Bones of my bone, we know the songs unsung!

              Let us sing because we know no matter how much love we spill 

          the rent stays the same; the room never fills.

Then, in the tit light next to her head something-sometimes-called-God says:

    Let there be us.

    Let there be us together.

    Let there be us into old age.

Let there be us, warm despite this weather.

Let there be us in the sky when the city is dark.

Let there be us; read so often our spines are creased.

Let there be us, who are so radiant the citizens call the cops.

    Let there be us laid in this page, for there was no room for us in the inn.

Let there be us in New Sodom, where there are gardens, sweet water, and our 

children walk in the streets without cars

and our legs are where they take us

and we are not scared of needles

and we are not scared of men

and when we die, it is not murder

and when we die, they mourn in our words

and when we die, we come back

   in red