ours poetica
Julian Randall reads "On the Night I Consider Coming Out to My Parents"
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Duration: | 01:52 |
Uploaded: | 2019-09-23 |
Last sync: | 2024-10-18 20:30 |
Julian Randall shares a poem he wrote in the aftermath of the Pulse shooting.
Brought to you by Complexly, The Poetry Foundation, and poet Paige Lewis. Learn more: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/
Julian Randall:
http://www.costuracreative.com/julian-randall.html
Poem:
On the Night I Consider Coming Out to My Parents by Julian Randall (2018)
Read from Refuse: https://upittpress.org/books/9780822965602/
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Brought to you by Complexly, The Poetry Foundation, and poet Paige Lewis. Learn more: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/
Julian Randall:
http://www.costuracreative.com/julian-randall.html
Poem:
On the Night I Consider Coming Out to My Parents by Julian Randall (2018)
Read from Refuse: https://upittpress.org/books/9780822965602/
11 issues of Poetry, subscribe today for $20: https://poetrymagazine.org/OursPoetica
Follow us elsewhere for the full Ours Poetica experience:
twitter.com/ourspoeticashow
instagram.com/ourspoeticashow
facebook.com/ourspoeticashow
#poetry #ourspoetica #julianrandall
My name is Julian Randall and I'll be reading my poem "On the night I consider coming out to my parents", which I wrote in the aftermath of the Pulse shooting.
On the Night I Consier Coming Out to My Parents
I am afraid, of something I am, but have never named. My tongue is
a refuge for secrets. How does one still fear banishments if they were
born an exile? There's blood on the ground, no time remains so I'll
lay it flat: I am Black and Dominican and Bisexual. There. If I die
now, you'll have a hint for which god to petition. Sometimes I look
at a man and my hands are already digging into the small country of
his back. In this way, the body is a distraction from what can make
the body just a memory. My lips could bring a man's blood to the
surface; my mother raised a curse and gave it her face. I am afraid to
belong to another thing, to become still more no man's land. I am a
trench; nobody comes to clear the dead. Somewhere, my mother is
gripping a rosary to pray for men who look like me. Somewhere, my
mother is praying for me. I do not want to give her something else to
worry about. I am quiet, I bury no one, blood is drying beneath my
nails, I do not know which me it belongs to.
On the Night I Consier Coming Out to My Parents
I am afraid, of something I am, but have never named. My tongue is
a refuge for secrets. How does one still fear banishments if they were
born an exile? There's blood on the ground, no time remains so I'll
lay it flat: I am Black and Dominican and Bisexual. There. If I die
now, you'll have a hint for which god to petition. Sometimes I look
at a man and my hands are already digging into the small country of
his back. In this way, the body is a distraction from what can make
the body just a memory. My lips could bring a man's blood to the
surface; my mother raised a curse and gave it her face. I am afraid to
belong to another thing, to become still more no man's land. I am a
trench; nobody comes to clear the dead. Somewhere, my mother is
gripping a rosary to pray for men who look like me. Somewhere, my
mother is praying for me. I do not want to give her something else to
worry about. I am quiet, I bury no one, blood is drying beneath my
nails, I do not know which me it belongs to.