studies poetry at Elms College, where they have also been awarded the Blue House fellowship. Their poetry appears/will appear in Empty Mirror, Five:2:One, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, North American Review, Penn Review, Pittsburgh Poetry Review, and elsewhere. Short fiction forthcoming from The Binnacle. They can be found on Twitter @sagescrittore


I stand on that stump in the middle of the ring of stones
someone laid out years ago for just such an occasion.

I touch my finger to the rushing water to find out for my
-self if the stories are true. Spoilers: they are. Everything

we’ve ever been told about water is real. I’d stay away if I were you.
When you touch my arm longer than One Heterosexual Second

does that mean you’re into me? Or are you just secure in your
masculinity enough to play with my feelings? I’ve lost the tongue

of touching. What does it mean when a boy grabs your arm, or drags
your hip next to his? Forgive him; he knows not what he does

to me when he puts his fingers in my hair and tosses starlight
at my eyes. I have no time for fragile masculinity, Frank. I need

a good man who will hold me like he means it, and I can’t keep
relying on you as my fallback. Sunday afternoon, I read

your poems to a waterfall crashing through a sewer grate into a pool
of murky brown water. Up the banks behind me, a mother and her dog

walk two kids along the trail, yelling about dragonflies in the mist.
I’ve never seen a dragonfly soar in the mist but, God, it must be special.

The little vessel of hope flits above the still water, reaching high
enough on glassy wings it may as well be a real dragon, roaring and fire

and everything. Like an angel signifying terrible change about to come
to the world, it dances over the morning waves a lonely light, forgotten.


This is where the sad boys keep their rock collections.
When they move their curly heads dust falls from their shoulders.

           The little tree in the corner
           isn’t a signifier of cheer
           or belief but it does light up
           the room some. They’ve pushed
           the tables to the far wall

to make room for the beautiful woman who dances like it’s okay
to be afraid of death even when everyone shames you for wanting it.

          The closest to God
          we’ve ever gotten is nothing.
          The closest to being alright
          we’ve ever gotten is being
          alive. Cities across the country

clap their bells together to ring in the new year of shameless creation.
This is how the prophets tell it: They say life is a feast, well if it is

            I’m starving.
            The collective consciousness
            of every boy I’ve
            ever touched presses
            on me like a winch tightening

around my throat. I expose my reed-pipe bare bones to the universe
and hope for a return of want. I’ve decided not to hope if I can help it.

             I’ve decided I’ve learned
             all there is to learn about
             longing; my teachers
             have been each person
             who has ever sat next to me.

What a time it will be: when there is no one left who knows who I was born.
Call me the ridiculous heat. Call me a stack of dirty, crumpled bills shoved

               in his elastic waistband.
               The membrane snaps and recoils
               and I wake again, the dreamscape
               dissipating in the morning light.
               Go ahead, say this has never happened.

Say this isn’t how it really is. I’ll pull back the curtain for you; I’ll demystify
the myth of our existence. Call fire a flower, and it will still burn your reaching