In Laughter, In Strife

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                                        for Aunt Doris (birth name Robson)

I was fifteen when you shielded me from the subway station creep 

as fast as he unsheathed his prick. Taught me to spear his ears 

with a high-pitched holler & stand ground before charging 

upstairs. I knew then you chose the right name: you were a Dorian,

a one-woman phalanx braced by a crimped wig & platform shoes 

that were your stage when you belted songs from Rent  

like you were the diva of Alphabet City fire escapes. 

Miss you. Wish we hadn’t lost touch. Heard cousin hauled you 

to that stifling town where they never knew how to hold you 

& shoved you underground. No wake. No service. As if 

the family knew no orthodox eulogy would do. 

Sashay your hip bones, doll — I’m writing you back from oblivion. 

Let’s tear the town in matching gold lamé gowns, rip their sleep 

with the staccato of your talus & my stilettos as we strut 

to a rooftop above their bitter smog. Did I tell you 

James Webb laid bare the kaleidoscopic splendor you knew 

transcends our earthly shrink-wrap? Darling, claw back 

your scattered atoms & pour those cosmic sequins 

down your waist-length curls, glam-up galaxies 

where no one will snuff you out.

                         Versions of this poem appeared in 

                         Montreal International Poetry Prize Anthology (2026) (first publication) and 

                         Best New Poets (2026)