WHEN I SAW TRUMP'S ANTI-TRANS CAMPAIGN ADS

by Janice Lloyd

I

I remembered the 1960s

when I would count the seconds

walking home from elementary school

until mom handed me my blue overnight bag

with my favorite flannel pjs and drove me

on Fridays to my girlfriend’s house.

How their home was like ones mom fantasized

about in Better Homes & Gardens magazine.

Upstairs had three bedrooms with full baths for kids,

and downstairs, off a marble foyer with a chandelier,

was a living room half the size of our house. 

How ladies in cocktail dresses and high heels

would sit straight-backed on the edge

of puffy sofas and chairs with their ankles crossed. 

Husbands in suits & ties would bring them drinks.

How we tiptoed by to gaze at elegance, respectability.

Her mom ushered us to my friend’s bedroom 

to play Candy Land or with Barbies.

II

Her younger brother John, alone in his room,

started screaming: No, Dad, please no. 

How my friend kept on playing with Barbie,

said, John wants to wear dresses, be called Suzy, 

and visit with the party guests. Dad gives him a shot,

lets him sleep it off so no one knows about him. How I lay awake 

in her poster bed that night wondering about John, 

went home the next morning, told mom.

She struck a match, lit a Tareyton cigarette,

said nothing. She started driving me 

to the skating rink to meet new friends. 

A few years later, she showed me John’s obit. 

No cause listed. We thought—suicide?

III

How I wish my friend and I could have played

dress up with Suzy the night of  her parents’ party.

Helped her put bright red lipstick on her lips.

Wear mascara.

Her favorite dress.

The Advocate, November 7, 2024

Janice Lloyd is a former journalist who spent her career at USA TODAY, is a married lesbian and writes poetry she workshops with other poets.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

by Rhiannon Thorne

"This evening, Michelle and I will do what I know every parent in America will do, which is hug our children a little tighter, and we'll tell them that we love them, and we'll remind each other how deeply we love one another. But there are families in Connecticut who cannot do that tonight . . ."

Next year I will wrap you presents
and you will not understand the need for bows,
but will reach towards them for days
in anticipation.

I will fret my wardrobe decision: do I dress you
for photographs or in a pattern that will hide
your smudgy fingerprints?  Or maybe the floral one
your grandmother, your father's mother,
will surely buy you to match her couch.

You'll have to wear it sometime, anyways,
to appease her.

You will laugh, pressing slobbered fingers
into sticky cake, and scowl at the flash while I sing you
Happy Birthday; whisper in your ear:
it was the happiest day of my life.

In Connecticut, a former mother will spend the week crying.
She will wonder what flowers
she should order for your birthday: White roses
or something with color?

She will sink down to her knees on a fresh wound
with well established grass.

I love you, she will say; it was the worst day
of my life.


Rhiannon Thorne’s work has appeared/is forthcoming in Gr@wl!x, Surreal Grotesque, The Legendary, Ditch, The Junk Lot Review, Vox Poetica, Zygote in my Coffee, e-Fiction, and Fried Chicken and Coffee. She also co-edits the online publication cahoodaloodaling.