Labels

We are given
straight
Jackets at birth
Swaddled tightly,
Torpedoed,
Into our proper places.
Boy
Girl
Burritos of expectation,
Many failing early,
Arms and legs clambering
To be free
From those coloured
blankets.

The label
Schema
Scheme
Schism
Becomes dictator
Absolute
And corrupt.

First gender
Then name
To denote, identify, relegate…
Popsicle sticks in the dirt
To let us know what we’re growing
And when a thistle erupts
Under the label “Rose,”
Well, that’s a weed.
We’re
Not
Growing
Weeds
In this Rose garden,
Yet there it is.

Dear thistle,
Wind yourself around this sharpie
Give yourself a new name
And the rising wilderness will feed you.
Your roots will grow legs
And run, run
Into the welcoming woods
There to join the named and nameless panoply.
Rosish thistles, thistlish roses,
Not-a-rose-or-thistle
Call-me-Tree
People
Anthropomorphism aside,
People.

We are the rainforest
Magic and medicine,
Root, rhizome
Pistil, stamen,
Unique.

We take our labels
Our straight-jackets,
And snip snip the seams
Furtively,
Or loudly rending
To produce these
Queer
Costumes
To fit our queer bodies
On the way to
Transcend
Dance

We meet in Salons
To chant and spin
And show off our creations,
Ourselves.

Do you like my dress?
It’s made of popsicle sticks.
I wear it ‘cause it makes me strong
I wear it ‘cause it turns me on
I’ll be a thistlish, thorny rose
And you be your own original prose
We can be he or she or they
Or boi or girl or free-flying fey.

Let our weed-children grow unfettered
Straight-jackets abandoned
Wending joyfully
Through the gardens of life.

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