poems: Tristan Silverman

Bed Before War

I want to tell you about the bed they were
asleep in. I want to say they slept as if nothing

could wake them. Like they, too, were part of the modern
world. As if war were just a draft of wind, a stray animal

that runs through your yard. I want to tell you
these things, but I know very little

about what it’s like to wake up, to sit at a table
temporary as fruit. I do not know how to cherish

even the smallest moments of pleasure. The sweaty salt
of butter spread thinly over toast. The crunch of boots

in every bite. I’ll only explain that this couple stared
at one another with each other’s ears, listening

to the radio between them. I want you to know
how much they honored their luck, how much hope

they felt with every slice of bread. I don’t know what
it’s like to sit on the surface of earth while it seizures.

I don’t know how to get up after the world has split,
what the sky looks like exploding. I only know how

they chanted together, earlier that morning:
  If something were ever to happen to you—
  if something were ever to happen—

NPR will claim love is a privilege. Yet, so is poetry. Death
has no punctuation. It is more final than a woman touching

her husband’s face, than a man touching his wife’s swollen
firm belly. Before their wedding, before the decay

of their skin, before the plan, before the baby was born,
before the bed was made, before the radio started sobbing,

before white dust thick as sand or the sacks of bodies
in the street, Before all of this, that unmoving couple

in that bed were just asleep before CNN streamed
an epidemic montage of death, or the sound of running–

how miraculous that people still chase it–
their life, even when the sky is coming after them.

The Only Gun I Ever Owned

“…you don’t understand, when you hold a gun, a real one, there’s a way it makes you feel through the spirit. Like, even as a teenager, I’m fucking powerful.”
–J.Torres, 14 years-old

It was sitting on the passenger seat in plain sight, next to an ounce of weed.
It was not quite black; it was so beautiful they had to break in.
It was after midnight when Nina woke me.
It was embarrassing that I was the only one in the party to fall asleep.
It was her eyes that made me startle.
It was the two boys standing behind her screen door who had found it.
It was no surprise the owner of that car chased them down the street.
It was a problem I had to solve because I had been asleep and no one saw me.
It was 2 blocks by myself to the man-made lake with the gun.
It was tucked into the back of my jeans.
“It’s a little late for you to be out,” the cop said when he saw me.
It was the shaking of my legs that would have given me away.
It was the idea that the gun could have gone off.
It could have taken my ass right off.
It was because 12 seemed too young to die or get arrested.
It was 2 months later that I did get arrested.
It was the longest 2 blocks of my life. It was as if I were hiding a dead body.
It became meaningful in my hand, standing next to the water.
It took my whole body to toss it and to say goodbye
It looked like a crow in the air, so I stood to watch its body wasted.
It was like burying a body alive, it hardly made a sound.
It was the realest thing I had ever done; I told every one about the gun for years.

Before being diagnosed with the rare disorder, congenital adrenal hyperplasia, poet,educator and activist TRISTAN SILVERMAN spent years examining the effects of shame on the body, gender, and sexuality. Once diagnosed, these issues became a focal point of her poetry, which has expanded to become a means of celebrating, educating, and inspiring others to consider the ways in which biology, identity, and society collide and intersect.

Quickly becoming one of the country’s foremost emerging performance poets, she recently placed 7th overall in the nation at the 2010 Women of the World Poetry Slam. Trained as a documentary filmmaker, screenwriter, and novelist, Tristan’s work addresses the humanness of flaw, the fluidity of identity, and the reality of coming of age disabled, queer and American. Tristan is the 2010 Chicago’s Women Slam Champion, was the winner of the Guild Poetry Complex’s 2010 17th annual Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Competition and has represented the city of Chicago on two National Poetry Slam teams, both were semi-finalist teams. You can find out more about her work at www.silverspooky.com and Online EPK.