Love is a chore, an endless stack of post-it notes, reminding me to hug back, to respond
when told I am loved, to stay in touch—a call, a text. I stick post-its on my bedroom walls
and line my limbs until my external wounds disappear. I stare at the neon array. Is this that love,
absorbed through six-season television shows? Love is a chore. He is a sunbath that does not burn
my pallid skin. He is the warm flood reaching all of my digits. Loving him is a task with ease, he removes
my post-it note collection, ignoring the sticky residue that remains like scars.
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Rainbows
I do not notice how the sun’s reflection brightens the green of the grass and leaves after it rains, because I am always looking for a rainbow. I do not run outside to inhale
the strong florals brought forth by the dewy mist, I crane my neck behind a window to catch the faint colors. I can not describe how peonies smell when they wear droplets
like jewelry. I was taught to dance in the rain, and then go inside. I was taught that rainbows come after it pours, so I scan the sky, and if I spot the curved image, I take out my phone.
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May Night
We are alone in a parking lot, lit by a singular lamp post. We climb the hill
until dusk makes it hard to decipher slight facial expressions. We hold hands
even though the ground is uneven. You pull me down to sit in the tall grass. I don’t
protest, I slouch my body onto yours and you identify the sounds of the night
as frogs. We tell each other about the lives of our grandparents and talk into the distance.
You lay your head on my lap and we listen to the frogs. Covered in the dusk, I watch
your eyes switch between mine.
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Dog Costume Parade
I stand at a crosswalk in the blazing sun of an October day that began chilling like the glass a bartender handed my mom
for her beer. My eyes were passed down from her father, pale blue or gray, puny victims of the sun, I shade them
with the back of my left hand and watch for the walking man
to appear. Before he does, I spot a dotted dog dressed as a butterfly,
and I recall how my grandfather’s veins stuck out from his skin like the vines running up the brick building across
the street. He promised to watch over us. He promised to send butterflies whenever he was near. I turn on my heels, catching
the final seconds counting down on the opposite walk and sprinting
between the white lines, following the butterfly around the corner. I come
upon a blocked-off road in the middle of this expansive city; I discover a dog- costume parade. Angels and Devils, Harry
Potters with birth-given fur marks on their foreheads. Nothing sad or scary— my grandfather would have said, Halloween’s
gone soft. I smooth my flat hair behind my ears and catch my breath while counting
the number of hot dog costumes— seven. I re-spot the butterfly dog
across the short crowd. I start to glide towards it; then I stop—the yellow lights turn red, and the walking man disappears.
Orange Meat
Sometimes, I weep over clementines. Doctors with ink marks on their blinding lab coats order years of juvenile therapy and forced conversations. I track my psyche
on a feelings wheel and pen my most medium-disturbing thoughts in a wellness journal from Barnes And Noble. I pretend I have the power not to conform, to reject
the history of my gender, to be fifteen and not take form as a perfectly wrapped gift. My head spins like the teacup amusement ride in front of my parents, I never knew I could make them
shudder in freight. The crisp wind shoves me on the hard grassy ground and makes me pray to the God I don’t believe in. I pray to stop slicing carpels into orange meat.
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If I Were Anne Sexton, John Berryman, or Sylvia Plath
I’d put on my mother’s fur coat and pour a tall glass
of vodka. I’d remind Henry that nobody is ever missing
and remember that life is boring. I’d check on the
children and stuff tea-towels under the kitchen doors.
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Summer of My Twentieth Year
I will spend the summer sifting through sand. Every time a boy runs nearby, I start again. My throat grows rusty, like the metal ladder bobbing
in the lake. My mother and I share a youthful body. I save my breath. I notice the quality of that boy’s tanned shins and question what these dunes
must become in the months when this foliage-state turns into a white tunnel. I obtain an image of this boy standing behind his mother in a check-
out line. He follows the credit card swipe and waits in anticipation— I don’t know the last time I waited in anticipation for the sound of
the receipt printer before grabbing the plastic sled from the conveyor belt.
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Treading Water
My body shivers and my teeth chatter. I wade in the icy endless lake at the center of his city. I am tethered by his calls of hope from the shore— keep kicking. I try to visualize warm delicacies, like crispy toast. I am desperate to watch his lips call out, directing me—you can stop treading. We spend days in my twin-sized bed, under glow-in-the-dark stars. We wonder if, pressed close enough, could we become one? My legs go numb and I kick wildly. My feet sink through the floorboards of my eleven-by-eleven room. I figure out love and write my definition with steady penmanship in a paper-backed journal. I will rediscover it years from now and roll my eyes, smiling at how pathetic it sounds, love me because I am convenient.
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Strong Squirrel
A squirrel scurries across my path, a torn piece of gluten-free bread in his hands. Do squirrels have fingers? He runs, but stops frequently,
he drops the dense, jagged rectangle. I stand, towering over him. Are squirrels strong like ants, or do they bury their strength
like acorns in the fall? I hide strength under layers of flesh and enclosed in my skull, like a prison or rather, a bunker. I classify the squirrel
as a male even though he exhibits the feminine quality of attempting to prove oneself—I too would drag fallen loaf pieces, if barely trusted with acorns.
