McDonald’s Money

For Yance Myah

You wore your hair in a high bun, a white button-up shirt.

We were so happy to see each other.

For some reason. For so many reasons.

You helped me carry furniture from the fifth floor.

I made miso soup and grilled fish for you.

That afternoon I trimmed your hair and massaged your scalp.

You stood by the door while I limped my way to the bathroom and changed my tampon.

Compassion.

On the way back to Copenhagen, we stopped by a McDonald’s.

We had McDonald’s money.

You told me your name. And you became that.

____

You call me ‘little nigga’ and your lips drip with love.

You invite me for dinner. I have anxiety about eating.

You make Trini doubles and I finish the food on my plate.

You’re scared of spiders. I’m scared of slugs.

In the countryside, we both panic.

We still make a fire.

You take me to your first home. You show me where you fell and broke your back.

I tell you that I love you and I don’t want a life without you in it.

You come to see me in Krakow. We walk tall and Black and proud.

Waiting for a hate crime.

We video call for nine hours. I fall asleep.

I wake up to a text saying ‘I love you.’ and believe it.

On my way to the clinic, you stay on the phone with me.

And hold me back to life.

We start watching House of the Dragon.

I really like it, you don’t.

We spend Christmas in the kitchen.

You bring me a purple dragon plushy from a gas station.

I name it Romeo. I hold it while walking about the house.

I sweat out a fever and you bring me tea and Faxe Kondi.

When I feel better, we eat injera.

You, in the afternoon, sleeping on my bed, lulled by the fan.

I run down to the store and buy everything I think you will like. And horse meat.

Me, moody and menstrual. You, sore. Your body is changing.

I can’t remember what your childhood teddy bear was called before we started calling it ‘Titties.’

I know what mood you’re in by the way you write ‘good morning.’

You, in a darkened room, laughing with other people, other women. Me, witnessing you.

Late at night, in your bed, whispering secrets. I tell you of my childhood. In the dark,

your eyes fill with rage you try to contain. And my belly hurts.

We play Sade while scrubbing the bathroom in your collective.

The chemicals are so strong we are light-headed.

I shower first.

I sleep like a starfish and you never complain.

Sometimes, I sleep on the sofa.

We laugh at a man who thinks he is the cure for gayness.

We laugh and laugh. And take the phone off ‘do not disturb.’

We send each other pictures of our nieces.

I wish I had you as a mother.

Your kindness makes me want to keep living. And to live well and care more for myself.

I listen to your voice notes when I am anxious.

I send you poop selfies.

We listen to Kelela.

I text you, and you say, ‘Nigga, I was just about to write you.’

Outside of how we chop onions, we cook exactly the same.

On a cab ride home, you tell me that it’s okay if I start taking T.

I tell you that I don’t want to become a man. You tell me I will never be like them.

You ply me with sunlight and ice cream before you tell me that our friend has taken their own

life in the attic of their mother’s home.

I feel your fear for me.

It could have easily been me.

You let me wear your favorite jumper all the time.

I smell like you for days afterward. Youandyouandyou.

You cut me oranges but never the way I want them because I never told you.

I am just grateful.

No matter where life takes me,

I carry this love. I carry my part.

Notes:

This poem is part of the folio “Broken Lines: A Gathering of Exiled Poets,” curated by Laura Kraftowitz and Edward Salem. Read the rest of the folio in the July/August 2026 issue of Poetry.

Source: Poetry (July/August 2026)