Trina Porte

Elegy Between Middle Age And Death

Say aloud all the names of those who’ve ever loved me—
even if we haven’t spoken in years or they are
long dead themselves or I am dead to them,
lodged in their vault of anger
like forgotten bones bleached white
from so many lost touches no longer adorning
this once precious flesh.

Put my dead body—or what’s left after the good parts,
if any remain, have been donated to help
someone keep living as long as
they vow not to hurt anyone (as if that
were possible for a human being
or any breathing creature not to do).

Put what is left of me into the earth or the ocean—
I always loved the ocean because it is
continually raging, massively beautiful,
stronger than all mankind, and touches everywhere.
Or put me into the compost heap if that is where
my beloved ex-wife will lay down her remains
with the last of her garden’s sustenance and
her silent love and her raucous laughter, and there
we will remain remains ever after.

There, let the rain raft us to the roots of a flower or
the body of a worm digesting chocolate-rich dirt
who becomes lunch in the belly of a reptile
or amphibian because I dearly loved the snakes,
the turtles, miniscule red efts, and especially the frogs—
their amazing internal antifreezing winter hibernations,
and unending shrill singing that defined each spring’s arrival.
Yes, put me there in eternal lovely muddy singing spring.

-from Queer Voices (MN Historical Society Press, 2019)


Letter to a middle-aged depressive
who may also be a poet

To whom it may concern:
Your form should follow function
so get the fuck up. Really—
Get out of bed. Get dressed.

Wearing pajamas isn’t getting dressed.
Put on deodorant. Brush your teeth.
And call your mother. Or father.
If they’re dead, email them.

Move. Your hips, your thighs,
your knees. The brain is not a
muscle; writing is not exercise.
Breathe hard enough to know

you’re alive. Think of the
most exquisite metaphor you’ve
ever read and masturbate. Swim
naked in a cold lake.

Walk five miles to buy
fresh lemonade. Hike
around somebody’s yard after
a glittering snowfall. Climb to the

top of a hill and count the stars.
Get out of bed every day for
a month. Do laundry; wear all your
clothes. Laugh instead of crying.

Laugh instead of having another
argument in your head. Laugh
at how ashamed you feel when you
drop something or forget something

or remember something you wish you
could forget. Turn on the lights. Eat
real food. Cook it first. Use a
knife and fork to eat. And a plate—

not the pan you cooked it in.
TV is not allowed. The news
is not allowed. Not even on
the radio. No depressing novels,

no booze, no cigarettes. No
uppers, no downers. Fuck yes
this is hard. Breakfast must be
eaten before noon. Cereal

is acceptable. There is no peace.
No justice either. Live with it.
Write anyway, knowing this is
true. Write to change it.

Know that killing yourself, slowly
or quickly, will only silence one more
voice. Know our voice is all
we have. We produce only

words. Our gift is air. Is clouds
of thought. Is raining down
drops of peace and loveliness
on this awful world. We are stupid

butterflies. We land on shit
thinking it’s flowers and drink it in.
We lay our eggs
hoping quiet beauties will one day

hatch out, fly free.
Remember this.
Now write it down,
in your own words.


pledge of allegiance

i pledge allegiance
to the frogs
of the untitled estates
of the wilderness

and may the unpublic
wetland areas
underfoot
invisible

be teeming with life
forever and ever
ah land


Trina Porte is half New Yorker, half Minnesotan. MN taught her calmness in the face of abuse, and NY to dissent in the face of oppression. Her work found in anthologies: Just Like A Girl, lifeblood, Nickel Empire, Queer Voices, Slant of Light. Her favorite venues: Bet Gavriel Arts Center, Bluestockings, Brecht Forum, Cornelia Street Cafe, Dyke Night, Patrick’s Cabaret, public libraries, Vulva Riot. Eternal thanks to mentor Andrea Dworkin for her righteous, empowering work, and to her parents’ speaking up for equality—every day, everywhere.

(click here to close this window)