the airplane didn't crash but she landed in a graveyard anyway
Andie Sheridan
the air draws her
in as she was born
of it rather than a legacy
of blood sacrifice family
she has been afraid of the color yellow
ever since she can remember
her hips are shriveling in
around curving in between without
touching
a bud which might’ve
otherwise been subjected to infanticide
who is to tell her
where
she buried two lilies in their prime
the pale petals
stay in her hair
when she kisses
her white mother on the cheek
surely her veins
give her away when she is angry
no one falls asleep faster
than she does
the diaspora will pull
her apart
by her eyelids
the fullness
of her lips the plague
in five tones of shame
she has no home no place
to cut her
fingernails she has no
womanhood perhaps
it is why she loves the flowers
in as she was born
of it rather than a legacy
of blood sacrifice family
she has been afraid of the color yellow
ever since she can remember
her hips are shriveling in
around curving in between without
touching
a bud which might’ve
otherwise been subjected to infanticide
who is to tell her
where
she buried two lilies in their prime
the pale petals
stay in her hair
when she kisses
her white mother on the cheek
surely her veins
give her away when she is angry
no one falls asleep faster
than she does
the diaspora will pull
her apart
by her eyelids
the fullness
of her lips the plague
in five tones of shame
she has no home no place
to cut her
fingernails she has no
womanhood perhaps
it is why she loves the flowers
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Andie Sheridan is a Chinese-American genderqueer poet exploring trans rebirth as well as transracial adoption in creating new worlds, new bodies, new words. (Pomona '21)
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