​Three Things to Do in My Hometown (Instead of Reading the Boston Globe)

By Julien Griswold

Golden Shovel after excerpts from “Police investigate transgender pride flag burning at Brookline church as a hate crime” by the Boston Globe

​1.
Watch some kid’s cartoon about police
dogs in the hospital waiting room. They investigate
wildfires, missing shoes, none of this transgender
bullshit. Good, strong American values. Pride
in their communities and their badges. The flag
outside the window flaps so fast it’s burning
a hole where my hand should be: on my chest at
full alert or reassuring mom’s as we check into Brookline
Pediactric. Squeeze that you’ll make it to church
on time. She will, sure as puppies save children as
scripture parts traffic. They line up like a verse, a
lesson when she shakes the hands of those who hate
me during the moment of peace, they call me a crime.

​2.
Small-town smoke invite at St. Mary’s Church
Flannel with three buttons undone, officials
pass around sacrament, how mom decried
community like this. Roll it over and pass the
lie to tell her later, how to explain the burning
in my throat, smoke on hair. Reminds her of
marshmallows with the neighbors, when the
Kohl’s cash left me dressed like a flag
that would only support me in a casket. Brain on
drugs, or something. I know the scripture and its
enforcers take back the joint, squish it on the lawn
like that erases anything. Modern environmentalism and
all we do to atone for our parent’s sin, smoking affirmed
we never progress, only repeat: Mary’s recycles its
donation envelopes so parishioners know to support
and earn. I earn my third puff with a smile for
the guys from the next school over. Transgender
athletes, they cough, chicks with dicks, those people
scare me, man, and if not for the lighter in
my hand, I would drop my pants and run a
-way. Everyone expects these things from a statement,
and it will be on the train back home by Thursday.

3.
Board the Amtrak, hug mom, hear her say, The
church still loves you. Only you display hate
when you do these things to yourself, and
ask her how else to undo the violence
and sew back in confidence when shown
only shame. How to draw a signature on
a banknote and not let the pen slip into our
old habits. How to meet her eyes on the lawn
when she calls a name that no longer has
meaning other than to grieve. I just no
-d, clasp her hands and relax my fist, place
each finger on my thigh. When I step in
the cabin, red moons linger where the
fingernails kept silent, reminding me to be kind
with mom, ignore what we both recognize: stench of
change like wet hemp with communion wine. Her world
won’t let her mourn without leaving the tomb. That
good grief, that weeping Mary holding Jesus
in stone: Pietà, like how Michelangelo imagined,
the grace to let him go. On her drive home, she plays K-Love and
hums along, throat lurching as she wonders, God,
who have I brought into your world? What have I created?
One thousand confession booths snake down the
I-95, each a spec through the train window. I look to the church,
Am I not a sinner and a patriot, too? Did you hear what I said?

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​Julien Griswold (they/them) thinks insurance agencies should cover notebook costs as therapy expenses. When they aren’t laying their thoughts bare in said notebooks, they study at Brown University. Their work has appeared in Palette Poetry, RUNESTONE, Neologism Poetry, The Racket Journal, and more. Connect with them online @cheerupjulien.