when I wonder if I will be misgendered at my funeral
when they pronounce us spouse & spouse
at the altar, my father will raise his brow.
he sees grief as a woman in a tuxedo,
standing beside the ghost of his daughter,
a person who learned to put love
in the hands of someone who addresses them
by their real name.
when they say that we are forever unified by a ring,
a symbol of a promise that a grey-haired alcoholic wouldn’t ever know how to make,
I will pick the rot from underneath my fingernails and bury it in the peace I find knowing myself ——
in other words, shattering his lens and opening my own eyes every morning,
black coffee, oatmilk creamer, and an acoustic guitar that belongs to only me.