Harry Styles at the Met Gala

by Bradley Trumpfheller

Bradley Trumpfheller

after sam sax

There’s a new century & he’s lace.
I won’t apologize.


I imagine wearing something like this to my wedding.

Or wedding someone wearing this.

Roses in the veil. What would my mother say about that.


At least if the boy in the photograph looked anything like you I could say I had a reason. I could say

he reminds me of you.
You remind me of you.

To think there was a time before I could no longer tell the difference.


Black rose on your arm, years black on either side of you.

Is there a way to say the light was pink or was it the floor.

The roses.

The years.

Gold as a frame, what he would hang from his ears if I asked.

If I asked.


The day behind the basketball court when [ ] called me what he called me.

The year behind his house, his mother’s roses downhearted in the heat.


On my knees in the new dirt, his car parked in the lot I turned my back towards.

If I lie to myself about this enough
it will, a century from now, be true.


There are no more other paradises.


The most I’ll-prove-it thing about me is that I’m not sure.

Is, like.

Look, look at.

That you could look at him & say yes, like that.

Mulch, lake-at-night, steam.

A photograph & a photograph.

That you can see his tattoos through the fabric.

Once a man opened my mouth & still, somewhere, still.


The kind of girl I could be
if someone had told me I could be a girl.
Almost one half of a scar from now.



God moves on the water like God on water.

Blink twice. Come closer. We are so with

& without precedence. A wrinkle. A tear.

This eye-bright split in the white fabric between us.


Bone corsage. Sheer black swan
& a wingspan.

King of I snuck out of the house for him.
The mood rings mood irrespective of gender.

Let the new century in. Rose.

Slick. Saint. Saint. Saint. Saint.


I pull a sickle from the lake & curve it back.

A gown from now. A gown ago.


Black sleeves. Black carpet.

Backless woman and an earring.

Take the sheet off the mirror.

I won’t apologize.


If death could wife me let me look like this.

Let me look like everyone we’ve ever wanted to die for.

Last updated October 12, 2022