Chosen Family

Where do the orphans eat,
            the trans children in second puberty
                   alone with breast buds and deep voices
                                         abandoned by those who love more conditionally
                                                        than fully
Where do my siblings eat,
         when the table serves bigotry
                            O, criticism is a side dish in my hometown
                                           next to the bowl of white rice and wooden chopsticks
                                                          facial wrinkles of disappointment and worry
                                                                                       the eleven in between her eyebrows
                                                          how the corners of the lips curve downwards
                                           yet open to say, Be more white
                           Be more straight
Be more perfect because we only have one try
    More money makes the blood happier.
 
Ma, let me be an apple tree
           tart but sweet
               crisp so the wind knows by curves
                             a blue and Pink Lady
                                          who shades not with judgment
                                                        but a canopy for belly breathing
Rest my sisters,
              this fruit can feed us all year.