for Bryn Kelly, a trans woman writer and artist who died in 2016.

Months follow her funeral and still not all her mourners blow away.
Not enough wind in the world. Cruelty lives on too, inheres in you,
travels through the back of love like a spine. Locks of red that are gone.
Locks of blonde. You will buy grown up clothes, you will fail more people.
The sky tricks you with warmth, then, like her, leaves you. No good
woman no more, and why. We lined up, we looked handsome, we did no good.
The Thane of Fife had a wife, where is she now? Outside the karaoke room
I heard her broad voice through the glass: Purple rain, pur—rple rain,
but stayed outside talking to Joss and pressing my stupid fat face
on the window. Oh honey, look where the wind never seems to blow you
no matter what game you talk.

Stephen Ira