by H. Melt
Praise for There Are Trans People Here
“The declarative premise of this collection, that there are trans people here—in the bookstore, in history, on the bus, ‘next to you,’ wherever you are—should not need to be said. Yet, in the cis imagination, trans life is so often understood as figural, as less than fully here. Given this, H. Melt’s matter-of-fact, precise, cartographic poems perform necessary care work for the trans people and places they attend to and yearn toward. Deeply grounded in the plain, bountiful fact of trans worlds—and insisting on our worlds to come—this book offers all who need it a map to a world ‘forever in bloom.’”
—Cameron Awkward-Rich, author of Dispatch
“There Are Trans People Here is an ode to trans joy, resilience, and communal care. A trans-utopian manifesto for a world that ‘let[s] us be beautiful / on our own terms.’ H. Melt’s verse is bold, stark, and uncompromising. Threading elements of familial narrative, memoir, and queer history, they trace through-lines from our past to a brighter, queerer future.”
—torrin a. greathouse, author of Wound from the Mouth of a Wound
“In There Are Trans People Here, H. Melt celebrates the blooming of trans identities and experiences in a landscape often hostile to trans survival. By invoking self-determination and communal care, these poems meld individual resilience with collective resistance to illuminate the everyday beauty of trans lives in refusing the lure of conditional inclusion to instead challenge dominant institutions of oppression, demand structural change, and remake the world.”
—Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore, author of The Freezer Door
“There Are Trans People Here is a book that straddles the lines between past, present, and future, looking back in order to imagine what is new, and in the imagining, makes it possible, brings the future to us in a way that is touchable, right there, alive and under our fingertips. In the poem ‘City of Trans Liberation’ H. Melt writes, ‘Where there are no borders / between who we were / & who we are / becoming.’ For we are always becoming, always dissolving borders, or else, erecting them. In these poems H. Melt dissolves and becomes and becomes.”
—Fatimah Asghar, author of If They Come for Us
“Reading this book it is abundantly clear that H. Melt is not only a brilliant poet but also a diligent reader. These poems pay homage to poets in H. Melt’s lineage, while also giving us vibrant portraits of their community and envisioning a future world where safety, freedom, joy, and love for trans people is not only possible but abundant and right here.”
—Jamila Woods, singer and songwriter of LEGACY! LEGACY!
© 2021 H. Melt
Published in 2021 by
Haymarket Books
P.O. Box 180165
Chicago, IL 60618
773-583-7884
www.haymarketbooks.org
[email protected]
ISBN: 978-1-64259-668-7
Distributed to the trade in the US through Consortium Book Sales and Distribution (www.cbsd.com) and internationally through Ingram Publisher Services International (www.ingramcontent.com).
This book was published with the generous support of Lannan Foundation and Wallace Action Fund.
Special discounts are available for bulk purchases by organizations and institutions. Please email [email protected] for more information.
Cover design by River Kerstetter. Cover background and interior collages from “Transgender Hiroes” promotional broadside, MOTHA, 2013. Courtesy of Chris E. Vargas.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available.
Dedicated to my trans ancestors, elders,
and mentors who show me what’s possible
“Care is deeply political.”
—Hil Malatino, Trans Care
TABLE OF CONTENTS
THERE ARE TRANS PEOPLE HERE
ON MY WAY TO LIBERATION
ALL THE MISSING SWEETNESS
DYSPHORIA IS NOT MY NAME
TRANS CARE
TO SYLVIE, TO FRANK
AT THE CHICAGO MARATHON
INTENSIVE CARE
GIOVANNI’S ROOM
IF YOU ARE OVER CIS PEOPLE
FAGGOT WITH FLOWERS
TO ALL THOSE LISTENING
AT THE DREAM JOB
ODE TO TERFS
MEETING CHELSEA MANNING
TRANS LIT
CITY OF TRANS LIBERATION
ON TRANS STREET
TRANS HOUSE
TAKE ME TO THE TRANS SPA
CAMP TRANS
TRANS MUSEUM
EVERY DAY IS A TRANS DAY
TRANS DAY OF REVENGE
I DON’T WANT A TRANS PRESIDENT
TRANS PEOPLE AGAINST BANS, WALLS & BORDERS
& AGAIN & AGAIN
THE MOST DANGEROUS JEW IN GERMANY
TRANS TEMPLE
PRAYER FOR MY TRANS SIBLINGS
THE RIOTS MUST CONTINUE
AFTERWORD
STUDY GUIDE
NOTES
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
GRATITUDE
THERE ARE TRANS PEOPLE HERE
after Jamaal May
There are trans people here
so many trans people here
is what I am trying to say.
When they say we are all
trapped in the wrong body
impostor, impossible. No.
We are on the bus
next to you. In the
cubicle next to you.
In the check out line
next to you.
Some of us are sex workers
teachers, artists, nurses
homeless, unemployed
& hungry too.
We are as real
& complicated
as anyone else.
But they won’t stop murdering.
Stop legislating. Stop imprisoning.
Stop claiming we are ruining our
countries, families, friendships
& futures too.
When every day
we awaken to
build them
anew.
ON MY WAY TO LIBERATION
for Pa Howie
I’m on the train
wearing a pink shirt
with a floral tie
on the way to celebrate
my grandfather’s liberation
from dachau
when the nazis
came for his family
in Kovno, Lithuania
my grandfather
dressed like a girl
to stay close to his
mother & sisters
when he immigrated
to the united states
he changed his name
from Michelson to Melton
I’ve changed my name
& my clothes too
on my way to
liberation.
ALL THE MISSING SWEETNESS
Forgive me for crying & screaming
in my bedroom, refusing to pile into the car
making us late for every high holiday service
forgive me for stepping on my neighbor’s toes
as we found four seats in the synagogue together
forgive me & I’ll forgive you
for forcing me into a skirt
not paying attention when I didn’t
break the fast, for eating apples raw
without dipping them in honey first
which I now squeeze into my cup
every morning, trying to recover
all the missing sweetness
from every passing year.
DYSPHORIA IS NOT MY NAME
after Ross Gay
Joy brought me here.
Lifted me onto this bed
on wheels, tied drawstrings
behind the back of my gown
affixed a hairnet atop my crown.
Look, in this country alone, there are
millions of us, naturally occurring
sweet things, with names
we carved ourselves.
No matter what the doctors say
I castrated myself & I’m all smiles.
There are so many surgeries
I could’ve had but timing
is everything.
It’s a new decade, a new life.
Purple is the color of my scars.
Purple is my favorite color.
I’m forever in bloom.
TRANS CARE
When I went to the
feminist health clinic
I said hysterectomy
they said iud, didn’t mention
misoprostol or that a pharmacist
would ask, are you pregnant?
they said insertion will only
take a few minutes, slight
cramping may occur
nothing about metal rods
puking up my breakfast
or suicidal ideation
after Sylvie survived
her surgery, I knew
I could too
I gathered the letters
I fought with insurance
I wrote a care plan
River watched
The Price is Right
with me in pre-op
Logan got me a unicorn balloon
& slept soundly as my catheter
was slowly removed
Sam drove me home
from the hospital &
picked up my pills
Eve organized my meal train
Jamila & Fati ordered fried chicken
Dominique bottled hibiscus lemonade
Ruby & I shared a pesto pizza
Emily cooked a veggie quiche
Fred delivered vienna beef
my dad sent a gift basket
my mom cooked mac & cheese
Ydalmi came with me to post-op
my iud is history
my tubes are finally tied
my uterus & cervix gone
this is not birth
control for me, it is
a beginning.
TO SYLVIE, TO FRANK
after Frank O’Hara
I wish I was having a coke with you
maybe a cherry, though I prefer
orange crush, apple juice, or iced tea
I would drink out of the bottle with you
on Coney Island, atop the Wonder Wheel
on Lake Michigan in a leather jacket
on Lake Champlain or my ikea couch
which you called “T Girl friendly”
with your long legs, your hands
picked up my call, when
a truck almost ended me
in Chicago, it is 6:48 pm
in Los Angeles it is 4:48 pm
I’m texting you in the middle
of a writing workshop, in the middle
of a pandemic, which stopped us
from being together & Frank says
the only thing to do is simply continue
I do not want to continue
without you.
AT THE CHICAGO MARATHON
a woman drapes
the canadian flag
over a barricade
I dangle
the trans flag
& she asks
what country is that?
when Logan
rounds the corner
with his sister
by his side
I hand him the trans flag
he wraps it around
his new chest
like a cape
as he flies
through the city
beaming with pride.
INTENSIVE CARE
River woke up
with their name
on the whiteboard
a crucifix on the wall
their parents straight
from New Mexico
we talk of poems
of estrogen, who
sent the flowers
when the nurse
asks me to shave
their face, I do
when the nurse
slips a she in
my direction
I don’t correct him
River does, despite the
difficulty of speaking
I wish we woke up
in a different world
but we’re here
holding hands
in intensive
care.
GIOVANNI’S ROOM
Est. 1973
is many rooms, many floors, a couple
winding staircases, new & used books
records & clothes, a chandelier with
its namesake book behind glass
a leather section, where I find
a chainmail necklace for ten dollars
a poetry section, where I find myself
Jamila & Raquel, this is for us
the oldest gay bookstore in
the country raises a trans flag
above the street, raises money
for AIDS & who better
to aid us than our own.
IF YOU ARE OVER CIS PEOPLE
after Morgan Parker
Don’t kill yourself.
Make trans friends.
Schedule an appointment at
Chicago Women’s Health Center.
Don’t watch or listen to fox news.
Search for Janet Mock’s writing
on the internet or the shelves at
Bluestockings or Unabridged.
Don’t stay at a transphobic job
or apologize when you are
misgendered or misnamed
by family or friends.
Don’t go home
for the holidays.
Cook your own feast.
Set your own table.
Use the bathroom
when you need it.
Don’t hold it in.
FAGGOT WITH FLOWERS
In the summertime
I walk to the farmers market
on my lunch break from work
most of the vendors are queer
selling tomatoes & peaches
empanadas, cider & curds
I spy brain flowers, which my mom
occasionally bought, though
she favored gladiolas
I debate whether or not
to buy flowers, they are
not food, a bit of a luxury
as I walk back to work
proudly holding
my cockscombs
a man in a grey pickup truck
blows a stop sign, presses
the gas in my path
he cracks the window
to yell faggot at me
missing my body
I go home & place
my flowers in water
on the kitchen table
trying to forget
what will die
in a few days
time.
TO ALL THOSE LISTENING
From the way the general description of the apartment has been provided me, some items may not be “suitable for viewing” by the public at-large, especially any minor children which would possibly accompany their parents.
—A. Steve Warnelis, Property Manager, XL Properties
When I found the letter
hung with blue tape
on my front door
I ran outside
My girlfriend
waiting in the car
to take me away
from my home
I couldn’t sleep
in my own bed, eat in my
own kitchen, ride the train
without thoughts of jumping
My apartment walls
said no hetero
said buttfuck the binary
said I am alive
My family said medicate
said history of depression
said this isn’t discrimination
My lawyer says illegal
My therapist says trauma
I say help & I say thanks
to all those listening
answering my calls.
AT THE DREAM JOB
after Carmen Maria Machado
I am surrounded by books
I meet my favorite authors
I listen to friends read poems
I hosted my first book launch
I started out at minimum wage
the owners call the cops
my coworkers are mostly white
men call about licking my pussy
women harass me for sex repeatedly
I am told you are erasing lesbians
I am told this is a feminist workplace
I am told your pronouns are a joke
where I am a joke, a trans person
working at a feminist bookstore.
ODE TO TERFs
you are not trans
radical or feminist.
you are exclusionary.
you say
back in my day.
back in your day
you denied our
existence.
you could read
Stryker’s Transgender History.
Research us in the ONE archives.
Visit Monica Helm’s flag in the
Smithsonian. Watch Free CeCe
Disclosure or Southern Exposure.
you cite the transsexual empire
spell women incorrectly
hijack pride parades
& mourn michfest.
we are living
in a new world.
you can join us
or become
extinct.
MEETING CHELSEA MANNING
After the Lambda Literary Awards
In manhattan, I’m bored
at an after party, the dj is bad
no one is dancing & only
