I come from deep, deep love. So deep it replaces your blood; from friends who love you like brothers, and brothers who forget they’re your friend.

I come from queers, from punks with soft hands and leather bound lovers, from dancing through the night and looking out for each other.

I come from walking the dog, out down the block and over the bridge to the park, past the soccer field where I won my first game and towards the river, and then back home again

I come from rolling hillsides of golden grass, haunting me through the passenger side window, asking if I know where it is I am going.

I come from climbing the jagged sea rocks along the shore, before they fenced off the area for tide pool restoration, back when you could tiptoe through the puddles of life in semi-damp pants on any random Tuesday

I come from delirium and hysteria and heart disease, from crooked noses and long legs and curly hair.

I come from withdrawals, from fainting in the new apartment, and from leaving the party to get high in my car. I come from doing the work. I come from prayer and humility and over and over again accepting the things I cannot change.

I come from waiting, from begging for, then demanding, something more. I come from wishing is not enough. I come from "you must imagine sisyphus happy"

and so I do.

but the sticky scent of burning asphalt and windy grass fields 

clings to me,

the fire of a summer night 

still beating within my chest,

the warm drops of rain on my face

glistening like gold in the river.

these days, in san francisco

it rains all the time.

it is cold and windy and sometimes downright miserable

but I keep my window open

even when it pours.

I like to remember those summer nights in Manassas

listening to the water come down through the bathroom window

wondering if it could wash away all I had kept hidden

today, the rain is light

the speckled pattern gathering on the concrete

the only real sign of weather.

the trees whispering to each other, 

leaves bouncing about the canopy

in ecstasy

they tell me to listen close to the life around me

to watch the horizon for the last bits of light left in the day

to put my hands in the dirt and dig

dig, dig, dig

all mud under my fingernails and soil in my lungs

until I've found what I had buried

all those years ago

the rain is not as joyful here,

but I am okay with that.

I hold my own celebrations for the washing away of things,

       build a shrine in my sternum

to the process of letting go.

I think that I am done digging now.

like ancestor

like friend

Céad Míle Fáilte means a hundred thousand welcomes

as in how did I get here

other than on your back

L'Chaim means To Life

such as brother I miss you

and

you were gone before I could remember to look

my ancestors were not all heroines and pioneers and good friends

some were bitter and hateful and maybe even deserving of a bad end

but I can build what they neglected

in the wreckage of what they believed

I can take these words and this language and create something bigger than me

the stories are waiting

the love is there

I will remember

Elijas Dillon is a gender nonconforming writer and poet for the people who grew up between California and Virginia. Their poems explore issues of identity and liberation, drawing on the tradition of using art as a tool of revolutionary action instituted by June Jordan's Poetry for the People syllabus. They are especially inspired by poets like Mahmoud Darwish and June Jordan, who communicate complicated realities accessibly through poetic language and imagery.

"In regards to this semester, I am most proud of how much poetry I've been able to write, no matter if it is "good" or not. I have been reminded of the importance of just starting as well as the power of revision. Though keeping up with classes along with health struggles and work was difficult, I am proud of what I was able to accomplish nonetheless. The next step for me is fostering this renewed joy in writing on my own time and remembering to share my work with my community. I am excited to continue using my voice to create things that matter."

you must live 

to tell my story 

to sell my things 

to buy a piece of cloth 

and some strings, 

(make it white with a long tail) 

so that a child, somewhere in Gaza 

while looking heaven in the eye 

awaiting his dad who left in a blaze— 

and bid no one farewell 

not even to his flesh 

not even to himself— 

sees the kite, my kite you made, flying up above 

and thinks for a moment an angel is there 

bringing back love 

If I must die 

let it bring hope 

let it be a tale

I do not have the $90 for my delinquent student loan payment

I do not have the $68 for the parking ticket I got for parking incorrectly on a hill in the beautiful city of San Francisco

I do not have the $11 for pasture raised eggs, but I try to buy them anyway.

I hope at least the chickens are doing okay.

I do not have the $6000 a month for my dad’s dementia care

I do not have the $900k to buy my mom a house in Washington

I do not have the the $185 for a 36 set of copic markers, 

Which I would use to make zines about imperialism and homophobia and scooby doo

If I had the time

I do not have the $2k to fix my 2012 Nissan Versa’s front bumper, which is currently adorned with white gorilla tape and epoxy glue that melted into my headlights after too many drives down the i5 in the summertime

I do not have the $900 to pay off my credit card, which I used to pay for my move to California, after getting broken up with and deciding in less than a month to move a thousand miles away,

again, because nothing really matters except being close to home

And by home I mean my friends, who I do Have,

Who call me in the afternoon just to say I love you, 

Who bring me hot pickles and watch reality tv with me when I say I want to die

Who cook elaborate meals to celebrate holidays they’ve never heard of, because I tell them I want to believe in God again

And I have the earth, who has been suggesting since the night of my birth, all thunderstorms and full moons in a town by the ocean, that there is more for me

Who grasps my collar, pulls me in close and whispers nothing but the tide, a reminder of all that was and all that will come,

Who sings in the mountains, above the tops of the trees, all birds and wind, a sunlight cacophony

And I have all the people who came before me, 

All the Leslie Feinbergs and June Jordans and Marsha P. Johnsons, all the James Baldwins and Mary Olivers and Maya Angelous,

all the nameless boys and girls and everything in between

who got down on their knees to weep only to realize they were sitting at God's feet

Albert Camus said we must

imagine Sisyphus happy,

Or something like that, I didn’t finish that book, 

But I think what he meant is that nothing matters unless we make it matter

So I have decided that love matters, 

That each moment of sincerity and compassion is worth a thousand wars, is worth the struggle up the hill day after day

I do not have a lot of what I need, I guess 

And yet, it seems,

I still have a lot.

big ol' honker, what a beak, l

ook at the schnoz on that one

all crooked and curvy and 

captivating

a memory, the faint scent of my ancestors across my face

who am I in big america

but a little girl with a big nose

who talks too much and too loudly

and always at the wrong time

who eats cruel men for dinner

and never forgets to walk the dog

who fills up to the brim with adoration

for all things human and all things holy, 

which I guess is just about everything

on this god forsaken earth

where I am a boy with a big nose

and crooked teeth and too much belly and almond eyes

and I think God loves me

I really think They Really Do.

I come from deep, deep love. So deep it replaces your blood; from friends who love you like brothers, and brothers who forget they’re your friend.

I come from queers, from punks with soft hands and leather bound lovers, from dancing through the night and looking out for each other.

I come from walking the dog, out down the block and over the bridge to the park, past the soccer field where I won my first game and towards the river, and then back home again

I come from rolling hillsides of golden grass, waving at me through the passenger side window, asking if I know where it is I am going.

I come from climbing the jagged sea rocks along the shore, before they fenced off the area for tide pool restoration, back when you could tiptoe through the puddles of life in semi-damp pants on any random Tuesday

I come from from people, from broken and angry and lost people, from loving and curious and strong people. From people who dream of better things and people who are scared of change. From people with problems and some solutions but mostly just a desire to be loved.

I come from waiting, from begging for, then demanding, something more. I come from wishing is not enough. I come from wake up and do the work. I come from finding the light and the purpose and the reason along the way.