The Poetry Marathon

CW: Illusions/references to domestic violence

Reflections on One More Theory on Pandemic Polyamory

I’m sorry I did that.

Nothing I write could change anything I said or did.

Or, more accurately, didn’t do.

How could I have chosen to believe her?

Over you? I could lie and say I don’t know but

I know.

She had me wrapped into her reality-

Bending to her whims and believing she was The Wizard of Oz.

You escaped her influence almost a year before I did.

Before I could- Before I was willing to.

I can no longer judge you

For taking that risk;

For seeing her for who she was.

You fled to safety that I refused to provide.

I miss you- us.

You’ll forever be on the list of what she took from me.

CW: pregnancy, miscarriage

Me Without You

Nine years later

we joke about how hard it was to pee on that stick.

How nervous it all made me

as 60 seconds turned into an eternity.

A popsicle sized piece of plastic told me our lives were changing.

We were 20 and not even close to thinking we were ready for this

yet we decided to take that chance.

Bet on ourselves, our love.

That decade I spent growing with you

made me a different person than I ever thought possible.

Watching something that is part of us
talk, grow, learn, take on some of your mannerisms,

was beyond my wildest dreams with you.

Except, that was all a dream.

My body rejected that dream.

Pain rippled through my body as our dream was ripped away.

My body screamed at us that we were not ready.

A decade out and I still miss you.

Mostly, I miss what we could have been.

A list of things that fit on our king sized bed with us on it:

Two cats; a dozen sweatshirts; a sense of belonging I have never felt before in my life; one-eighth of our polycule; three stuffies the size of a toddler; getting lost in the creamy coffee color of your eyes; one wedge pillow; a phone for every person on the bed; a sloth stuffy that is also a heating pad; whatever the opposite of being in the closet is; an actual heating pad; 2 wrist braces that should be on my wrist but aren’t; the molecular space that is all that separates our bodies; a king sized, chunky knit blanket; four other, smaller blankets of various soft materials; an existence that is inherently a protest; and a well worn body pillow

CW: Dysphoria

Dysphoria is my Neighbor

I no longer want to live in this neighborhood.

My neighbor posts all day on NextDoor to spread lies about me.

She complains about me;

What I do, how I look, anything she can find to complain about.

I don’t know which neighbors believe her
And I care too much about finding out.

Then she has the audacity to steal my wifi.

She eats up all my bandwidth with her conspiracy theories.

I can’t leave my trash bins out too long
or she’ll report me to make herself feel better.

I’ve been told she has lived here as long as I

but I don’t remember her moving in.

I pray for her to move out before I do

and that her dog will stop shitting on my lawn.
All I ask is a warning before she sends off fireworks.

Asking and asking until my face turns blue with no luck.

Dysphoria is my neighbor and

she only lives here to make me miserable.

CW: older language/reclaimed slur; religious imagery

Untitled

“God blessed me by making me transexual for the same reason God made what but not bread and fruit but not wine, so that humanity might share in the act of creation.” ~ Julian K. Jarboe

I am a being of my own creation.

Made in the image of my ancestors’ wildest dreams.

They laid every brick along my path

so that I can do the holiest Creation of all:
The Creation of myself.

Every injection of testosterone in my hair covered stomach

is a commitment to myself.

Reaffirmed every time I put on the clothing of euphoria.

Giving my body rest and food and the extra salt I need

are love letters to my ancestors.

Every single day that I exist finds a new way

to say ‘thank you’ to Creation for the gift of participation.

I am the bread, the wine.

I am the image of God.

Queerness is an act of creation

and I am the wine and the grapes.

CW: Mild potential body horror throughout the poem

Untitled

I don’t plan on having arthritic bones to dig up.

No anthropologist will be able to answer

if my hips belonged to a boy or a girl.

Instead, my ribs will grow a tree.

A strong oak tree whose branches stretch in the morning sun.

Cellulose stronger than my collagen ever dreamed of being.

Squirrels will dance along the branches of my memory.

Birds will build their nests with the remains of my heart.

What society deems as failures in my lifetime

won’t matter after I nourished this tree. Fed this forest.

I don’t care who remembers me

so long as the forest still whispers my name.

CW: Mentions of eugenics, anti-abortion protests, HIV, COVID, accusations of grooming

Untitled

We’re on the edge.

Don’t cover your eyes, your ears.

The writing has been on the wall.

Written in the blood of those who came before me.

Your rose colored glasses just hid the warnings.

40 Days for Life;

no kink at Pride;

calling us groomers all over again;

CDC failure after CDC failure from HIV to COVID and before;

Eugenics baked into policy and law.

I’ve seen it coming.
I’ve watched it it swallow comrade after comrade.

If we’re lucky, we get a few bones back.

I’ve seen it coming.
It’s just now at your door.

Untitled

My favorite time to go to the ocean

is December.

No tourists clogging up the streets,

RVs parked in the accessible parking spots.

There is finally enough room

to lay out a blanket for me and my thoughts.

Spend the day under a grey sun.

I meet the sand

meets the ocean

meets the snow

meets the sea grass

meets the rocks.

It’s warmer here than it is at home even though it’s winter.

It’s calmer here too.

The waves rolling in

keep time with the moon.

I’ll make sure to take take my sweatpants off

to wade into the ocean in shorts.

Feel the ocean meeting land

and feel the whole universe move beneath my feet.

Bask in how small I truly am then

walk back to the car, shoes in my hand.

Taking the snow and ice covered stone steps

reminding myself

I am here.

I am alive.

Hello everyone!

I’m River (they/it) and I’m from the rural reaches of Maine. I’m a queer, cripple, mad, anarchist writer whose work is heavily influenced by those identities. Namely, I write poetry but flash and short stories also happen from time to time.

I spent a decade working as a social worker after graduating college and left the field at the end of 2020. After spending 2021 trying to find new employment, I finally listened to my body screaming that I couldn’t do traditional employment. Thankfully I have a supportive community behind me while I deal with life and disability.

I attempted to participate last year but was unable due to issues outside of my control so I’m excited for this year.

Sometimes,

I pretend to still be sleeping.

Eyes unopened,

Still wrapped around her.

I revel in the snores

Even when they’re deafening.

The warmth of my bare chest

Pressed against her bare back.

Her hair tangled in my septum piercing.

Not daring to move

But, more importantly,

Not wanting to move.

So, I drift back to sleep

Not ready to break this spell.