Tag: Love

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

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.

reminiscence of an epiphany

trE

Sunday morning free-flowing poetry

she used to make me
feel like the ends of a
loaf of bread—lonely
and untouched, a nuisance
among false nutrition.

it took years for me to
recognize that I was
stuffed French Toast—quality
breakfast—a delicacy across
the world over.

to her, I would never be
more, so I left.
she would always see
the ends of a loaf of
bread—ever-present, first
and last in line, dependable,
yet too tough to swallow.

I am a four-course meal,
never-ending hors d’oeuvres,
and endless recipes of
food for the soul.
too bad she’ll never be
full from me.

my heart is buried on hours of land

trE

a lamentation

At Jernee’s Burial Site. Sunday, May 31, 2026. Photo Collage Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

eight months later, you still
visit me as I’m visiting you, and
my world has shifted to
peacefulness in other forms.

you were my peace.
you were my comfort.
you were my joy.

although, it is becoming familiar
in the void, I’m still breathless
without you.

I don’t think the same.
I don’t move the same.
the woman I am turning into
wishes she had your knowing
stare in front of her.

but this is grief…
I am covered in love
I carry in my bones for you—you’re
still in every blink of my
eyes and every curl of my
fingers.

I can feel you in the gaps
and pauses of time—you are
everywhere and nowhere
simultaneously… and on most
days, that is a heartbreak I
shovel through until my
arms give way to the pain
sleeping in their veins.

my forever fur baby—you will
never know how centered you
kept me—how grounded I grew
to be in the comfort of
your care.

maybe you felt it as you
were dying.
maybe you smelled it as
you watched me take on
your independence when
it fell from your soul.
maybe you sensed the
slowness of every step I
took around you—cautious of
your weathered bones.

I stand in the midst of
temporary silence, birds sing
a song of which I am lyric-less,
and chickens keep watch over
hours of land where my heart
is buried, and I wonder…

if you’re in heaven, will you
wait for me?

do you even want to?

Musical Selection:

Originally published in Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun on Substack.