everyone has a communal queer farm fantasy

until the sink is full of dishes
and the virus makes its way in
and the dog has shit on the floor
and a chicken is disemboweled again
and someone needs to peel her from the dirt 
and someone needs to dig the hole
and someone needs to gather the bloody feathers 

i am happy to be here most days. 
like when we went to waffle house and 
on the way, one of us jumped out of the car
to scrape a nazi sticker from a street sign
before the light turned green
and we laughed despite the fact that this city
is full of nazis but
it’s full of us too. 

it’s late spring and the goats are shedding and want
nothing more than to be brushed and chased
around the yard. i think of them
rolling their eyes, making sense
of our antics: the humans
need enrichment again. 

there are extra hands to build the greenhouse
and pro-abortion campaign signs from november
to patch the roof.

the piano plays and fills the every room
with the sound of what lies beyond survival. 

type-a gays beware: this house shakes and moves - 
literally, one side is sinking - and we gotta move
with her. this old queer crone: risen in 1905, mother
of stucco, basement of brick and mouse skeletons, keeper
of us. 

the sun hits her 
and her doors once again fit in their frames
and she feels young again, even as we
step out of the shower, sweating. one day,
i tell her, i will buy you a brand new AC system.
but until then, we’ll smoke on the porch
and we’ll dance outside with the goats
and we’ll step around each others egg shell edges
knowing each of our pet peeves comes from
one of our pet traumas, running amok,
their claws clicking against the hardwood.

Published in the Home/Liminal Spaces Issue of The Winnow