On Masculinity
There is not much to say
regarding this curse, my father
would claim, his voice riddled
from hacking, from wheezing.
We do not die. Not truly, at least.
No, the man is a tool, a means
he would hammer in. We build then
build more. Grab all at grab-length.
March towards the northern silence,
allow for no light to pass through. This
is who we are, he had last withered out
and I suppose he’s right. I learned
that the hand is a shovel. Once, I
had dug many male-shaped holes
and threw everything in:
Books, stars, thatch, and sheep—
everything I had knew, had held
until only my boots were left. Yes,
like this, I had buried him—my father—
that day, and watched him drink from
my coffee the next.
Self-Portrait as a George Romero Film
What I fear most is not remembering—
thoughts showering in their missing letters.
Waking up painting the budding plants,
watering silent walls, with everyone
still waving. Being lost, without weight of it.
Night creeps up close
like a rotten reminder.
This morning was odd.
Crawled, then limped to the bathroom mirror
where I saw myself as myself, imperfectly lopsided
like my soon-to-be late grandmother
when she would call me son.
Like faces from this film I had watched some time ago:
Night of the Living Dead.
It was one of those old zombie movies
that never actually used the word.
Long-gone extras haunted behind the screen, looming
from every cornfield, cemetery, window.
Unnamed and muted. Acting
the thoughtless outlines
of themselves.
Ghosts playing ghosts,
I recall thinking.
Light’s finality
then descended from the dusk. In the end,
we all become what we fear the most,
the sun had said with her falling.
Or, at least,
I believe she said something
like that.
tc Wiggins is an African American poet residing in Cincinnati, Ohio who has been writing since August of 2022. His favorite writers and inspirations are Linda Gregg, Richard Siken, and Ada Limón. His hobbies include: reading and writing poetry, birdwatching, and playing Pokemon by himself. If you cannot tell yet, tc suffers from chronic (if not terminal) boredom. You should send him poems, preferably your own. He would love to read them, and perhaps even offer you feedback if you’re looking for that. His Instagram handle is scaringthemuse.