Photo by Michael Fenton on Unsplasha chainsaw whirrs through february air
& once again, i think of Nex Benedict.
i try to imagine the bathroom—green walls,
tiles bloodied. imagine the echoes of a ruckus
like the wails of chains through wood
in a foggy forest. imagine a world
where every trans person who deserves
better—which is to say, all of us—
is anointed with moondust and a crown
of violets, revered in the eyes of all
that surround us. the mechanical whining
fades to tv static and tinnitus. the only thing
more unnatural than the sound of treefelling
is the urge to kill a child for the very light
they radiate from tiny fingertips.
pushing pixels
does anyone else hear the music from dig dug as they inch
closer and closer to their limit? no, just me? okay, well,
i’m there, in the tunnel pumping pookas full of hot air,
and i realize i’m wedged in a corner between boulder and fire
breathing dragon, defenses downed. i only know dread
from dreams, from the lurch of stomach as body catapults
south through the sky. until i wake, i lie suspended in death.
in the morning, i pour hot water over prickly pear tea,
cupping my lidded mushroom mug as a substitute for human
warmth. the sun rises over my series of jagged tunnels,
cut across bedrock all serpentine. the ground paints green
over dirt, tunnels obscured by the early spring crocuses. yes,
there are so many crocuses.
