so we drive with our red blinking lights, wax molassing our chins, sinking heat spells. light moults off your blonde hair, until our warm bodies, ambering mid-fall, absorbs the noise, slanting underground.
Maxine Chen
Maxine Chen (he/they) thinks every poem is a trans poem, unless it's a trans poem, in which case it's about the opposite of absence. He can be found dozing off on the late bus, about to miss their stop. Wake him up?
Madame Mangetout
Here you go, swallowing lamps and crustacean shells and day old rice. Could reach out and drag my finger over boa constrictor city line, point out crooked skin bump named shard of glass and crab pincer. Found the lightbulbs! Too full for sex. Keep waiting to call the emergency line—you said it’d be a long […]
Birdsong is Another Word for
Sweating through the cotton balls If I could walk forever I couldn’t How many times I put my ear to the same glory hole Kneeling akimbo in patchwork dirt […]