MYSELF WHEN I’M REAL
Say my body // isn’t a sequin dress—
Isn’t a raw fish, being stripped of scales.
Say I’m not // a drunken disco ball
In a lonely skating rink.
Or the deep wishing-well // the starfish fell
Into.
Say I’m the seagull // before its bad reputation.
Say I’m the pigeon //
But not the pigeon-shit.
Say I’m the cassette tape
Whose hair unwound // underwater—
Whose hair // you swim through.
The record player whose vinyl
Will never scratch.
Call me by my birth name—
Frida Kahlo.
Call me by my birth name—
Tuira Kayapó.
Remind me // how the sky was created.
Say—
I split the sun, like yolk
& let the day fall into me.
If our love is a trash bag
Please // don’t let it tear.
You’re the reason I live.
You pour my coffee black.
You critique the dim glow, the mint-
Blue hue of television screens.
You stumbled into me
[Again & again]
Like a child, discovering the word
Domestic-violence.
How dumb // we must have been—
To hold each other so frailly.
To hold anything at all—
The blue landscape of January days.
The taste of pan dulce—
The gummy smile of a teething child.
The pearl in an oysters’ mouth, round
Like //
My semen on your tongue.
ARS POETICA
A dove falls from the clouds, I name it Rory.
I wring its neck like a washcloth // then wipe
My face.
I want everything to have purpose—
The beak, the bones, the baby blue
Vodka veins.
This is such a useless fucking poem.
[He’s not coming back].
I grind his wings into glitter
& throw him into the air // like a child.
I grind his wings into ash
& throw him into the earth // like a casket.
Part Two: Stop it. Stop writing about him
Already. Fuck.
None of this is about Rory.
It’s all about me.
The ocean cut its sky two sets of blue.
A horizon bleeds at sunset.
I’ve always wanted to put those lines in a poem
Somewhere. They sound so tragic & beautiful.
But they mean nothing to me— Rory.
HOME
A Villanelle
Waves taped to my face, I’m crying
Then sucking dick for rent. When the
Police lights drift across me like rose petals.
Rory, I’m not sure how we got here.
Two punk faggots, sleeping in the
Parking lot outside of Casino Morango. I’m crying
Every time he plays the sad song in my
Mouth. [Smack these teeth like piano keys]. Watch
The Police lights drift across my windshield.
Rory, do you think we can outlive this?
[The sound of conch shells cracking].
Waves taped to my face. I have
Five dollars left— if we go to the gas station
How far away can you drive drunk?
Lights spinning across the pavement
& I piss on the great saguaro; with my
Lips split open & wide owl eyes.
[I’m broken like a wishbone].
Police lights call me “criminal.”
Christopher Soto
