Author: trE

I am more than breath and bones. I am nectar in waiting.

linger long

trE

a dream narrative poem

Dindga McCannon, Pat is Pregnant, 1977. Courtesy of Fridman Gallery

you still linger…
hard to forget you,
but I want to.

hard to move on,
but I had to.

you are the dry rot
of towels, a smell that
remains regardless of the
number of times
we wash and bleach them.

constant without contact,
abuse without words,
the fact of life that
dies to teach one more
lesson while the heart
is already breaking.

I had a dream that your
oldest daughter found me,
and hugged my neck
so tight I lost my voice.

I didn’t know what to say
or how to react…
why was she here?
I stood befuddled, amazed
by how much she favored you,
yet you always had your
mark on your firstborn.

she walked, talked, and
flashed her hands around the
air like you, too.
it was good but it
wasn’t.

because the questions came…
questions to which I
had no answers, and could
only say, “It was time for
me to leave. I knew of
no other way to keep
myself from breaking.”

to a 20-year-old, this
seems like abandonment
and neglect, but it wasn’t,
it isn’t.
she hasn’t yet experienced pain
so deep it keeps you
from functioning in life—refusing
to bathe or eat or love
yourself.

she doesn’t know the sting
of realizing you will
never be the chosen one.

I left when this child was
15, and she wanted answers.
“Ask your mother” seemed
viciously vile.
I always wondered what you
told, are telling the children,
what they think of me.

I don’t anymore.
there’s no need.
your oldest came to
me in a dream, and she told
me, “You are forgiven.
I don’t blame you.
I still love you.”

yet you linger… long…
you are the dry rot
of towels, a smell that
remains regardless of the
number of times
we wash and bleach them.

regardless of the number
of times we wash and
bleach them, you linger.

*Also published in Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun via Substack.

Les Nubians, Sourire. YouTube

Remy’s Last Day

trE

My dog-sitting adventure has come to an end

Remington and his handsome self. Photo Collage Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

Remy’s humans will be coming to get him later today. After spending eight days with this handsome boy, I will surely miss his presence in my home. I am going to bathe him, wash his blanket, walk him two more times, and enjoy the last few hours with him.

One thing is for certain: he has solidified my desire to continue to search for my new dog. It’s hard trying to find the perfect one for me again, but I know I will.

Remy

Busy ball of fur
Gracing my home with sweetness
Last day to share him

the connection

trE

a free verse poem

Remington “Remy” Cornelius snuggled up next to Jernee’s pillow in what is now… his favorite chair. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

hawk’s eyes on my
back
Remy stares at my
moving body
snuggled next to
Jernee

has he connected with
the spirit of my dead
dog
does he know…

she must be speaking
words of wisdom to
her younger long-lost
cousin

“keep an eye on her,
will you?
she gets afraid
sometimes—doesn’t
want anyone to
know.”

he’s following instructions
doesn’t shield his stare
watches peacefully
from her hold

Originally published via Substack Notes.

Have I Been Fathered Well?

trE

To my father and all fathers, fathering even in the midst of criticism and nonsense

My parents. Senior Prom. My photo of their photo. 2026 ©Tremaine L. Loadholt

Teenage parenting couldn’t have
been easy.
What were you thinking when I
came along?
Your first child—a girl, mirror image
of you in a tiny body…
The community practice baby,
Trial-and-error baby,
First model of how to get it
right and wrong.

That’s a lot of pressure for
someone who’d just
broken away from his own
mother’s home a year before.

You did it.

In your own way, you fathered
me in the shadows of
spirited descendants showing
you paths of least resistance.
You fathered me when you
wanted to give up, and
when street basketball
should’ve been more important.
You fathered me without the
knowledge of who I’d become…

Strong-willed
Opinionated
Open-minded
QUEER

Divorce cracked our foundation,
but it could never rupture our
walls.

You still are the first man I
ever loved, and you’ll
probably be the last.
My home away from home…
if my heart aches and I
need a voice of reason who
will be honest, too,
you’re a phone call away.

Have I been fathered well?
I have a father who proudly
speaks of his daughter—who
doesn’t shy away from the topic
of my sexuality, who has loved
every pet as he does his
human grandchildren, and still
cooks for me when I visit home.

He listens.
He paces his responses.
He preaches to me as he
would in his pulpit, but he
doesn’t overshoot the message.

Whenever I hug him, I feel safe.
And that is a feeling
worth remembering for years
to come.

That is a feeling I’ll always
know and look for when
trouble is lasting longer
than it should.

To all the fathers excelling at what they’ve been given—a gift, to those rearing the children of their communities, their nieces & nephews, godchildren, and young men who’ve lost their way. To the women and men living without fathers, praying to still have the heart of humanity, I see you. I love you. Hang in there.

Also shared in Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun via Substack.