TY - JOUR
AU1 - Bendorf, Oliver Baez
AB - Michigan You all tell me, go and hide my tail between my legs. I will no longer put up with this shit. I have been beaten. I have had my nose broken. I have been thrown in jail. I have lost my job. I have lost my apartment. For gay liberation, and you all treat me this way? What the fuck’s wrong with you all? Think about that!  —Sylvia Rivera (1951–2002), drag queen/trans rights activist daisy fleabane arrives early after winter onslaught of lake effect snow melt becomes water that feeds wildflowers from the underside becomes flood comes family a cellular structure for secrets the year is 2020 everyone is sick and healing not everyone everyone is sick or healing lives are precious or expendable expelled, expressed, released, sighed sloughed off to replicate in someone else’s precious orexpendable lungs germination, occupation months between vagus nerve and a memory of sociality you might as well be in Michigan I rolled into a pleasant peninsula seeking safe haven and yes sometimes an invisible cloak fits over my house caped children walk right by carrying plastic pumpkins I push grass ordinance to edges a local construction of crime legal height lowered rehearsing arguments with neighbors I mow a tiny strip around the meadow the pollinator garden tickles the curb with liberated wildflowers fleabane daisies such a startling puff of yellow pink clover right over and dock dead limbs rotting but controlled into compost we will grow things here, “we are in this together” I’ll post a sign explaining and pray no one calls on the rooster who rushes to elevation to greet the day or warn of it all day the same bugle meaning something only in his kingdom which I happen to live in I surround myself in brown deck stains and elk and moose of the Michigan flag state whistle toad song don’t you know? sun cooks the shame away who else needs to survive I am trying to answer one question I measure miles from the arbitrary border drive-through pharma for extra vials of testosterone—controlled substance Rx sees a criminal queer scrutinizes ID then dispenses a paper bag folded closed andstapled which I toss empty passenger seat sanitize my hands keep driving fueled by fossils north in Michigan what is a mortgage is it a house of cards a debt meant never to be repaid token of achievement in settlement’s shadow am I the last loser in Michigan still banking on silence and pleasantries to protect me strangers/neighbors power walk past my ragged lawn their yards are dull and starve hummingbirds, monarchs,cardinals, and bees how is that more beautiful? they call cops on children in the road if I stay in line if I keep my head down if I work harder et cetera, copping myself. I have held my tail between my legs and sang “grateful” I have been spit on for whose hand I held, harassed for the pants I wore, catcalled for existing I have been slandered by the God Hates Fags family I have studied their church compound on Google Street View and seen the pride center painted in rainbow across the street I can no longer be placated by the colorful advancement of rights depressed: to push or pull down no wonder an old ordinance still on the books bans fortune telling another way I am a criminal here between that and the forbidden meadow and some other elements and the privileges I am often permitted I forgot to assemble, paid on time every month did homophobia’s work by playing “smear the queer” Sylvia didn’t DIE for me to hide my tail between my legs untethering from my respectable nest holding the “x” in my hand like a rosary and like a brick. I’m done being good! Rx In my new healing, I learned that we are all sick.      —Willie Perdomo Try writing a poem to a chicken. Try writing a poem to repel cabbage moths. Can poetry keep my mosquito population down, or will I need to hang a bat-house? Can poetry help the red squirrel maimed and dead overnight near the rain barrel? Can a poem ensure my right to non-discrimination as I age? Must I trade my tongue for shelter? Can a poem wet the path of the gasoline fire down the block? Who is responsible for hope? Is anyone in charge of freedom? Can a poem hurry the half-life of insecticides? Can a poem entice a possum to eat ticks in the tall grass, or will that happen on its own? We only get one disaster that’s externally-imposed. The rest come from trying to make the first disaster better. So try the falcon’s eye up close. Try rest. We need resistance. We need reset. We need rust. We need restitution. We need restoration. We have reservations. We refuse. We read. We want reduced. We have prescriptions. Try the moon whatever it finds in your heart. Oh, try anything. Can’t you sing? Bang a pot in the street until we remember? If you’re reading this, keep a candle in your window. I love you. © The Author(s) 2020. Published by Oxford University Press on behalf of the Association for the Study of Literature and Environment. All rights reserved. For permissions, please email: journals.permissions@oup.com This article is published and distributed under the terms of the Oxford University Press, Standard Journals Publication Model (https://academic.oup.com/journals/pages/open_access/funder_policies/chorus/standard_publication_model) © The Author(s) 2020. Published by Oxford University Press on behalf of the Association for the Study of Literature and Environment. All rights reserved. For permissions, please email: journals.permissions@oup.com
TI - “Michigan” and “Rx”
JF - ISLE: Interdisciplinary Studies in Literature and Environment
DO - 10.1093/isle/isaa179
DA - 2020-12-14
UR - https://www.deepdyve.com/lp/oxford-university-press/michigan-and-rx-HCsUmqTuDu
SP - 883
EP - 888
VL - 27
IS - 4
DP - DeepDyve
ER -