after finding queerness in an abandoned sandbox as a teen, after a breakup, after asking you anything

we lurked like wolves, our bodies velveting with night—our skin soft with peach fuzz all over whirling with goosebumps, our tangerinesoaked clothes fused. we were hungry, rubbing our ribs until we whimpered & plunged our hands, like shovels, into winedrunk dirt. deep purple grains sifted under the pink moon until we reached a warm pool of water, the kind fisted out of shallowgouged beachsand. our hands shimmered a white glow as we gently scooped it out, & it wet our throats with sludge—good, finally something to eat. we took turns, as our hands glowed bright like large lantern light, & we could finally feel the dewed grass cutting into our calves.

tommy blake (ze/he/they) has several chapbooks, notably Trick Mirror or Your Computer Screen (fifth wheel press, 2022); lacuna (Kith Books, 2022); and space cowboy on a little, uh, space exploration? (Bottlecap Press, 2023). ze’s full length poetry collections, NOW THAT’S WHAT I CALL HORROR! and So, Who’s Courage?, are forthcoming in 2023 with Gutslut Press and Bullshit Lit., respectively.

This poem previously appeared in PRINT//AFTER: transience, transference, transfusions, & transmutations.

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