by Dylan McNulty-Holmes
Poor as in money showed up, but never stuck around—
dropped in for dinner, promised to stop by more often,
but then crossed the street to avoid us—
remembered Christmases, but not birthdays,
dodged phone calls with flimsy excuses,
embarrassed us by accepting the invite
but ducking out early. Money wrote cheques
it couldn’t cash, until the rich kids touched me
with their pity-hungry hands, brushed my hair,
and fed me food whilst telling me they bet
it’s the first home-cooked meal I’ve had in ages.
And it was like, stop trying to be so goddamn nice.
Stop trying to insinuate yourself because of a real pain
you’ve imagined onto me. Your desperation puts mine
to shame. I will not be your different walk of life, your
bright exception, another reason to think
yourself civilised. When I transitioned,
I was primed— already on to those too-broad
smiles, those grasping hands that wanted, so
badly, to know suffering, to extract a tragic
anecdote to garnish their aperitifs. I do not give
them easy answers, only further questions: how often
have you thought about your gender? Do you
have any exciting surgeries coming up? My bone
geometry may change slightly, actually, but tell me:
Exactly how many trans skeletons are you hoping to see?
Dylan McNulty-Holmes (he/they) is a writer, editor, and the author of the poetry chapbook Survivalism for Hedonists (Querencia Press, 2023). His writing has been nominated for a Pushcart prize, shortlisted for the 2022 New Media Writing Prize, and featured by Split Lip, Diagram (forthcoming), Pilot Press, Redivider and The New Welsh Review. He lives in Berlin.
Emerge Literary Journal 