Self-Portrait as Top Surgery Scars


Bypass the no trespass sign and invite
a bullet to your chest. The wind over
your keloids is an elegy, tastes like
cotton candy and bay water, sounds
like Bloc Party ballads and your mother’s
Yalla! ’s. There are memories like sunburns
and hickeys, memories we name but cannot
keep. You asked to be handsome and were
handed a lullaby. Still, you sang your-
self into resurrection, summoned love
that drains blood. You took a joyride
and remembered the joy.



Pastoral

maybe it was the year
the water dried up