three poems

less a body than a series of indignities
rounded edges assuring that no matter
what I do, someone will call me “miss,”
or “ma’am”

muscles searing hot
eyes that water at the slightest provocation
stumpy, useless legs
a gnarled and rotted clump of old wires
where a uterus should be

a face like a hacksaw

I had to be charming, you see
I have no other choice

our love will destroy the world
the thing about dysmorphia
is that it makes you acutely aware
of every movement, no matter how granular

which is to say that it is no wonder
that we spent six weeks
measuring the distance between
our unholy forms

each shallow breath, each shy away
air swimming with magnets

i thought about kissing you
on yr front porch, in the street,
against a car

and tried not to contort my mouth with desire,
tried to smile as if i was not sick with dreams

anton mesmer was, by all accounts,
probably a piece of shit & yet
it is his particular magic i reference

it probably should be takeda, though,
bleeding for joy, in spite to mortality,
fuck you, you will take me on my own terms

as each move of my body against yrs
feels like that same delighted rebuke
of that which most people consider
impolite in its transgressions, us,
together, on fire

throw that discourse in the garbage can
“politics” in air-quotes, as spectacle, as if laws do not leak into our lives, do not ring us even if they never touch us

“politics” as selling point, don’t you want to hear this musician’s rebuke of a fool everyone knows to be so, a symptom, a hollow gesture, wringing hands, let’s all change our profile pictures

“politics” as a thing ripped from our chests, “politics” as blood in our mouths,
“politics” acted out and acted upon

“politics” as a keyword, makes boars bristle, makes horses rear, makes old ghosts howl

haunted through the hallways of mansions bigger and less personal than the first gilded age, 17 bedrooms all with white walls, the people are coming, do you hear us, do you hear us, be afraid

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