3 poems | Yani Robinson

HEARTBREAK IS LIKE A METEOR

 

Before you I was like the earth

after the dinosaurs –

 

frozen and harsh and

covered in dead animals

(that we burn in our cars

isn’t that depressing – our cars

run on dead dinosaurs).

 

How does anyone live before knowing love –

all a great empty

universe that suddenly fills with life

 

and then you can’t live

without this person. You’d die

without them. I have lived this way.

 

Even if only once

and never again – So be it.

At least I loved.

 

 

IT’S JUST A FLESH WOUND

 

I think I have a head wound.

It’s the same head wound

all trans people have.

It aches a little whenever

you get misgendered.

It bleeds when you lose a job

or get evicted,

or get arrested.

It throbs when someone calls you

by your dead name.

And by throbs I mean it’s a migraine.

 

 

I AM THE NEXT DEAD TRANS PERSON

 

This is a protest.

I’m not getting out of bed

until we stop killing trans women of color.

 

This is a protest.

I’m getting out of bed, but I’m not going to work

until we stop killing trans women of color.

 

This is a protest.

I’m going to work, but I’m not putting up with cis people

until we stop killing trans women of color.

 

This is a protest.

I’ll put up with cis people, but I will not apologize for my existence.

Please stop killing trans women of color.

 

This is a protest.

I’m sorry, the number you dialed is not in service.

 


Yani Robinson is a trans writer and community organizer currently studying creative writing at UW. His favorite contemporary poets include Tracy K. Smith, Joe Wenderoth, and Randall Mann. His first language is Thai, his mother is a Thai immigrant, and he identifies much like a kathoey—living his gender through performance.

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