July
a poem about grief
Before I acknowledge my unbearably long absence and share my latest happenings and hope for Beneath the Flesh, I feel pulled to share my alchemy of grief. This summer has been filled with loss — the loss of pups, the loss of the most beautiful and profound poet and member of our queer community, Andrea Gibson, and, of course, the losses of our brothers and sisters in Gaza and all over the world. Today is the 16th anniversary of the loss of one of my sweetest friends, and there’s no other way I want to honor him than by sharing a poem I’ve been holding hostage.
I wrote this poem two summers ago in my tiny Brooklyn bedroom, unexpectedly reawakened by grief. Like many, I moved across the country thinking I would build a new life, a new self, leaving behind what has always tethered me.
But, I was blissfully unaware that soaking in the wondrous chaos, the dream-like vastness, and the glittery gridded squares atop a five-floor walk-up with a joint in my hand would drown me in grief. It was then that I realized a July in California was the same as a July in New York.
JULY
while others think of beach days, rooftop bars, and parties, I think of unanswered phone calls, unwanted platters, and churches filled with children too young to lay their own to rest.
grief sticks and builds a home within, you see. it burrows deep in your crevices and takes up space in your corners.
mine have been filled 15 years too long. and though I’ve learned to carve pockets of joy, the weight of your loss remains my greatest constant.
because as I claim next summer and the summers after that as my own, I realize just how deep in my corners you are.
maybe the truth is after all this time all I’ve really been doing is running, from places where grief has landed towards more promising summers filled with laughter and photographs I’d like to think I’ll keep forever.
but as July continues baring heartbreak, with your name imprinted on my wrist, I know only this to be true
missing you feels like home.
Why did it take me two years to release this poem into the world? I’m not quite sure. Maybe it’s because I finally feel free from it, the grief I once felt tethered to. Grief that has spilled in tears, in melancholy, in a thick and foggy weight my body once sludged through. Today, 16 years later, this grief manifests in joy, in the warmth of the sun on my skin, in the fluttering of butterflies, in dancing at Pride festivals, in color, in laughter, and time spent with the people I love. If you, too, are feeling heavy or overcome by grief, I promise it will alchemize. In your art, in your conversations, in the way you move through the world.
If you would like to contribute your grief to this publication or would like to send inspiration our way, please email beneaththefleshmedia@gmail.com
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