Short Film Starring My Beloved’s Red Bronco

by K. Iver

Short Film Starring My Beloved’s Red Bronco, selected by Tyehimba Jess for the 2022 Ballard Spahr Prize for Poetry,is an aching tribute to the power and precarity of queer love.

In small-town Mississippi, before the aughts, a child “assigned ‘woman’” and a boy “forced to call / himself a girl” love one another—from afar, behind closed doors, in motels. The child survives an injurious mother and the beast-shaped men she brings home; the boy becomes a soldier. Years later, the boy—the eponymous beloved, Missy—dies by suicide, kicking up a riptide of memory. This is where K. Iver writes, at the confluence of love poem and elegy.

“I say to the water if you were here, / you’d be here.” With cinematic precision, they conjure dorm-room landlines, the lingering sweetness of shared candy, a ballet strap and “soft / fingers tracing it, afraid to touch / the skin.” They punctuate depictions of familial abuse and the cruel politics of the Deep South with fairy tales: a girl who endures abuse refusing to grow into a mother who inflicts it herself, queer youth kissing fearlessly, bodies transcending the violence of a reductive gender binary. In these fantasies, “there’s no / reason to leave town no hidden / torches waiting for us to fall asleep.”

Short Film Starring My Beloved’s Red Bronco sees us through a particular kind of grief—one so relentless, it’s precious. It presses us, also, to continue advocating for a world in which queer love fantasies become reality and queer love poems “swaddle the impossible / contours of joy.”

Genres: Poetry, LGBT, Queer, Grief, Nonfiction, Transgender, Queer Lit

77 pages, Kindle Edition

First published January 10, 2023

Reviews

[Lyd Havens · Rating 5 out of 5]

This book is going to stay with me for a very long time—I already know that. It really is cinematic, and heart-wrenchingly visceral. The questions I'm going to be meditating on as I think about this book: Where can our grief go after holding it for years, decades? How do you carry it as both you and it age? How do you reconcile it as the world so rapidly changes? It's made all the more visceral by the fact that the livelihoods of the LGBTQ community, especially trans people, are being threatened so viciously right now. To know that your late beloved(s) would not necessarily be safe in this decade, either, is its own grief in and of itself. How do we carry that, too?

[janeee :D · Rating 3 out of 5]

3.25

insanely concise and a gorgeous iteration of grief and regret… this collection is genuinely so impressive and achieves so much in a technique sense ( things that i shouldve known could be possible but just Didnt ) . in awe and one day hoping to manifest such talent . the poems that stood out to me in particular were family of origin content warning, second position (home practice), and gospel for missy during our three-day birthday season .

urgh the continuity was rllyyyyy commendably epic bc the poems felt like fresh frames of a situation every time . grief invents itself to fill rooms in absences i suppose !!! am just a bit boggled still sorry .

[Kaylee · Rating 5 out of 5]

For the next year Everyone in my life will receive a copy of this book for their birthday i dont care who you are

[johnny ♡ · Rating 5 out of 5]

trans liberation now!

[Kyra V · Rating 5 out of 5]

Gorgeous, highly recommend

[Stephanie · Rating 5 out of 5]

Sometimes poetry just rips your heart to shreds.

[Madeline Augusta Turner · Rating 5 out of 5]

K. Iver is one of those poets I've followed on Instagram for some time -- I'm not sure when or how I found their work first but I'm so wildly glad I did! This is an incredibly well-crafted collection of poems -- not only are individual pieces stunning, the arcs Iver builds and the throughlines they weave are exceptional. If you were a queer kid who found some part of yourself in a cornfield somewhere -- and know what the weight and beauty in that world means -- I think you should read this book. If you love trans people, I think you should read this book. If you need to bear witness to something vital, which I think we all do, I think you should read this book. It broke my heart. It reminded me why I love poetry so much.

[Augie · Rating 4 out of 5]

YOUCH

[Amie Whittemore · Rating 5 out of 5]

I read it all in one fell swoop, which is not how I usually read poetry. The poems were gripping and earnest, urgent in the real way of urgency; these poems had to be written, be read. An exquisite book on trans experience, on queer/trans love, on the weight of grief, and how it carries us as much as we carry it.

[Ellie Foster · Rating 5 out of 5]

K. Iver writes of queer grief, gender, class, and a person's sense of place within the world. The exploration of the binary of gender, as well as the depths of queer grief was important to read. It was interesting to see the poet reflect upon where they believe things ultimately changed or went wrong. A beautiful poetry collection.

[cameron tyner · Rating 5 out of 5]

Truly and sincerely, so incredibly stunning. No poetry collection has ever had the impact on me that this one just did. I feel so connected to this collection, and I know I’ll find myself coming back to it time and time again. Thank you to my grad school poetry workshop.

[Trey Purves · Rating 5 out of 5]

So that’s what feeling feels like

[katjaaa · Rating 5 out of 5]

this was soooo good! turns out I can like poetry books a lot if they aren't bad lmao

[ariana · Rating 5 out of 5]

one of the most emotionally visceral poetry books I’ve ever read. i cried for about an hour after finishing. reese knight you deserved a better life and trans liberation is imminent. trans poetry is vital. 5 stars

[addie-ann · Rating 5 out of 5]

unforgettably gut-wrenching

[dandelion · Rating 4 out of 5]

It's a bittersweet poetry collection. The majority if not all of them are written about or to a late trans friend of the author who committed suicide when they were a young adult.

[Hannah · Rating 5 out of 5]

Absolutely stunning collection of poetry, and I am so lucky I got to see K. Iver read these poems in person!!! ❤️

[Britain Brooks-Hall · Rating 5 out of 5]

K. Iver writes a raw and visceral telling of grief and queerness in its many forms. “That is to say I am inconsolable. Every day a new definition of inconsolable,” reminded me that grief never truly leaves us, but arrives in different ways as time goes on. The intersection of grief and queerness in this book reminds us of the slow violence that trans/queer people face in their lives. Grief is often hard to name and even harder to narrate - do yourself a favor and spend a night by the fire with this book of poetry

[Neha · Rating 4 out of 5]

This reads more like a novel-in-verse than a poetry collection, which works well! The only issue (and the only reason I’m subtracting a star) is that then the focus on each individual poem is then lessened; while all of these poems are beautiful and progress the story (so to speak), some would not be memorable on their own, and only serve their purpose within this collection. All-in-all, this was a unique reading experience, and one that will stay with me for a long time — I could feel the intensity Iver’s grief and longing, almost as if it was emanating off the page.

“She says how does that anger / work for you. I say it works / because it’s mine.”

[Júlia · Rating 4 out of 5]

identitat de gènere, dol i una història d'amor: la poesia narrativa em té el cor robat

[Kayla - the.bookish.mama · Rating 5 out of 5]

Oh, this book. It’s sad, and it’s beautiful. K. Iver has a way of conjuring so much imagery through so few words that make up a line, that it can only be some type of magic in the way in which they construct their poems. There were so many times that my eyes filled with tears, and my heart ached, as I came to the end of a poem, waiting a moment to flip the the page. Not only does this collection give a voice to ways in which grief shapes us, stays with us, and sometimes visits us, but also the small moments that make a memory, and ultimately that make a life. This is a vital work in the trans and non-binary experience, and it’s one that shouldn’t be missed.


CW: suicide, homophobia, rape/sexual assault, abuse, neglect, transphobia

[Wyrd Witch · Rating 4 out of 5]

3.5 stars

The collection is bold in exploring gender identity in the 90s, its dedication to the memory of a closeted trans man who took his own life, domestic abuse, religious trauma, and a society determined to reject your existence. Several of the poems are deeply beautiful. The first is a lovely introductory piece titled "Nostalgia" that uses the Garden of Eden to structure the themes of the collection. "Anti Elegy" does just as the title claims (even if it is still something of an elegy). I love the structure mimicking a river, once lively, slowly trickling to a steady end.

However, I felt that many of the poems just...fizzled. Which isn't to say they're completely bad. Many, in fact, carry the spark of genius. I just wanted more.

[Ally]

It wants to swaddle the impossible
contours of joy. It's tired of hearing
joy is possible. It wants joy.

- "Family of Origin Content Warning"

---

Open with the two-lane highway. The ice
truck and the ice. Your elbow resting on the
driver side window. Zoom in on the toned
forearm. The goldenrod rushing by. Missy,
our audience can see you now.

- "Short Film Starring My Beloved's Living Body"

---

When her body
said a woman is only a woman
if she's beautiful and a beautiful woman
cries in her dress when her husband leaves.

- "1987"

---

Each morning I peel
the linen from my face without
an angel's announcement.

- "Gospel for Missy During Our Three-Day Birthday Season"

---

_Relevé_
meaning how much choreographed
relief a kingdom tolerates. Already
you are learning the offstage rules
about who gets rescued. Who throws
flowers, who catches them.

- "Sleeping Beauty"

---

She says how does that anger
work for you. I say it works
because it's mine.

[...]

My grief is precious.
My grief thinks it's you.
If I wake tomorrow, content
with the sheets and square
bedroom, where are you.
Where am I.

- "Who Is This Grief For?"

---

Most of us are on TV.

- "Missy Asks Me What the Next Century's Like"

---

I stand in front of paintings a long time
and think about the bones once belonging
to you and how Egon Schiele could line
a body into movement. Because you no longer
have a shape, I’ve made a practice of nearness.
A hawk lets me stroke her mid-flight,
I let comets land in my mouth,
when they’re small enough. My lover
pushes all their weight on me because I asked.
They flatten me into astonishment.
Because nothing can astonish you, I tempt
what’s alive by doubting I could love it more.
It’s a neat trick. When I use it, raccoons
visit often, their fingers closed around mud
older than you. Missy, this is me moving on.
There’s a noon rain to get caught in and many
clavicles to behold. I wish you could see this one,
tilting across a century.

- "Because You Can't"

[Shruthi · Rating 5 out of 5]

Absolutely beautiful.


You are, according to her,
whispering candy through her mouth

and suddenly I remember why so many
have a sweet tooth for belief

I'm waiting for class in the high school
courtyard where we met

& where you offered me
an open pack of Reese's Pieces.

I took several. Closed my mouth around Yellow No. 5
where it steeped until homeroom.

Even then you were looking

everywhere for a new name,
signing all of your notes Reese.

So when the medium looks up
from her black tablecloth

and says candy, I almost believe
your mouth is her mouth

like I almost once believed a god
could hold me with words.
That was during a time when you,
a blond boy forced to call

himself a girl, stood in my driveway
under a glazed moon,

saying one day you won't be scared
which meant one day my mouth

would touch the mouth our church
couldn't categorize. Right now,

I'm arguing with belief again.
The everywhereness of candy,

how easily anyone can recall stories
of hard and soft sugar playing

a supporting role. I'm writing
this down hoping you'll see it

and argue back. Remind me
that before we met, I'd turn

the pages of our junior high yearbook,
& stop, at a landscape spread

of an ice cream social & you, the one
closest to the camera, holding up

a Snickers bar with both hands
& an ad-ready wink.

Say it again, Reese. Prove me wrong.

--A Medium Performs Your Visit

[Tutankhamun18 · Rating 4 out of 5]

Exploring the loss of a friend, death, childhood, coming of age and gender, these poems deal with phone calls, missed connections, ballet positions, souls and pretty woman. The form is often short stream of conciousness or non rhyming couplets and often cuts deep.

“In my dreams you call from the decade-old landline that held our breaths until 3 a.m.”

“Her needle tries to release a decade-old phone call stuck in the tight meat between my index finger and thumb.”

“In three days, on your thirty-eighth, I'll visit the valley of your bones, tempt the Lord by reminding him these bones are very dry. When I say son of man, can these bones live? your ankles will not be rattled, will not sprout cartilage, will not be blessed. Meanwhile, not far, Lazarus keeps wandering from his tomb.
Every night he gets a parade. I can hear their lutes from my bedroom.
A song about who gets miracles.”

“The dress is beast or witch. Your mother says she's the heroine, but no one knows what that means. Your mother has no time for bedtime stories. Every night before bed, she takes a Pretty Woman videotape out of the sleeve, and the VCR plays it automatically.”

[Joe Skilton · Rating 4 out of 5]

“ this poem wants to stay in that bedroom.
It wants to swaddle the impossible contours of joy.”

“ You held many more objects than a chair and a rope. Faces have softened in your hands.
Steering wheels have lived there a long time. But I can't celebrate that. Not yet.”

“ In 1996, when you wanted me, my long hair offered its youth to bleach & coiled heat. My makeup labor clocked twenty minutes for each eye. You had a type & it was me, two hours after waking for school. I'd watched my mother do the same, leading with lacquer, frost, & shoulder pads. She didn't know, I didn't know, there were other ways — so many other ways - to wear a body.”

“ Her needle tries to release a decade-old phone call stuck in the tight meat between my index finger and thumb.”

“ Missy, this is me moving on.
There's a noon rain to get caught in and many clavicles to behold. I wish you could see this one, tilting across a century.”

[emily · Rating 5 out of 5]

sometimes i forget the exhilaration of loving a collection immediately within the first few pages. i am delighted to report back that this brought back all of the emotions... i actually know the exact poem that made me put this down and stare into the distance and also writhe around in my bed (it's "Missy,"). absolutely in love with the perpetuity of grief and how it runs parallel with a kind of tender that only comes with love. obsessed with missy. obsessed with the red bronco. obsessed with the way love endures amidst great change, physical change, change in the sense of the mortal realm, change in age, change in how to love. also on a technical level i love how the poems end lol

“I keep thinking how my grief / makes you small. How / you didn’t want to be a god / I’ve asked everyone to love.”

“If you
were still dying    like the rest of us,
I wouldn’t tell    a young ghost how
far we’ve come    as if I believed how
far we’ve come    was enough.”

[Courtney LeBlanc · Rating 4 out of 5]

A collection of poems about gender, desire, queerness, family, loss, grief, and survival.

from A Medium Performs Your Visit: "Right now, // I'm arguing with belief again. / The everywhereness of candy, // how easily anyone can recall stories / of hard and soft sugar playing // a supporting role. I'm writing / this down hoping you'll see it // and argue back."

from Missy,: "the nurse wakes me up tells men to eat gives me the medicine I'd once begged my mom for my mom called an exorcist instead I can't tell you that he waited with a large hand on my head a metaphor to take literal shape I emptied my mom's bathroom pharmacy of Benadryl I can't tell you how instinctual the planning how accidental the survival"

from Fantasy with No Secrets: "Instead of staring at each other on the landing / you touch my face and lean in. My mouth opens // to soft possibility."

[C. · Rating 4 out of 5]

“Here, in the forest, a ripeness both of you can eat but somehow shouldn’t. A fruit bored with sinless afternoons and aching for teeth.”

“I stand in front of paintings a long time and think about the bones once belonging to you and how Egon Schiele could line a body into movement. Because you no longer have a shape, I’ve made a practice of nearness.”


“I pretended not to mind until one night I saw her hysterectomy scar, the pale softness above stretched into a mouth—her body grimacing at me as if I were the one who opened the skin.”

this entire book is an ode. to life, to grief, for that silent and buried lover.

[Barton Smock · Rating 5 out of 5]

K.Iver’s 'Short Film Starring My Beloved’s Red Bronco' is a vivifying work of the wrecked and the revisited. The world here ends might it outlast, or at least timestamp, revelation. Identity has two ghosts that meet in their sleep. I don’t know what I remember. Iver’s annotated amnesia is long on imagination, and has the memory of grief, and the verse distills both into tactile divinations and paused pleas. What singing. What an unmarred chorus culled from an embodied body so uncalled from its de-miracled angel. It’s a collection to behold. And one that heartbreakingly withstands the withheld.