I was a beige-painted plastic soldier, stripped
of its garment, Rockstar Barbie too nervous to sing,
the chipped black enamel of a favorite action
figure, the one left in the rain, in the sandbox,
buried in moss in willow bark. Rediscovered
two springs later. I was a child. I was alone.
I made up stories, all of which ended in disease
or matrimony: a lover that when I met I hurt
so that he would hurt me back and then feel
guilty about his silence, after I died of cancer.
Trenton Pollard has work forthcoming in Denver Quarterly, Lambda Literary, Plenitude, and elsewhere. Originally from Michigan, he has worked as a welder, massage therapist, political organizer, and poetry teacher. He lives in New York City, with occasional furloughs in Austin, Texas. He is currently the Nonfiction Editor of Columbia Journal Online.