By Aaron Kharkamni
Happy Valley—how happy it was,
Or so they said.
My mother with her quiet hands,
My father with his prayers,
My brother with his boyhood
All of it ordinary,
All of it stitched neat,
Except for me,
A thread pulled loose.
Fourth grade. Gay.
It clung to the walls,
To the desks, to the sky,
To my ribs—tight, choking.
The boys said it first,
Said it fast,
Said it sharp,
Like a match against bone.
Hijra.
It stung like piss on an open wound,
Rotting, spreading,
My body a thing to be dissected,
Examined, spat upon.
And then there was Father Joseph,
His voice a cross, a hammer,
The weight of Sodom and Gomorrah
Hanging from my thin shoulders
A sermon that did not end.
“Don’t stand like that.”
“Don’t sit like that.”
“Don’t speak like that.”
“Don’t exist like that.”
So I carved myself into silence.
I folded my hands,
Locked my tongue behind my teeth,
Let shame slither into my marrow.
Mother, will you love me if I stand straighter?
Father, will you see me if I harden my voice?
Brother, will you play with me
If I make my wrists steel?
I swear I can try.
I swear I can be normal.
I swear I can be a man.