Opening up

with line from “Hurry up please it’s time” by Anne Sexton


I’m each thread in the ripped jeans…
it’s this feminine; it’s this swallow
inside. Sometimes I forget she’s there,
when I try making space for building a copper snake statue in every room
I read myself into. Acrylic intelligence. I hate doing the dishes. That’s how I begin
searching for myself in kitchen sinks. Those holes are
warzones. My friend said it’s no coincidence: she found love
in them & she’s gay. Happiness at last. But I’m scared to go down the drop–

then I look at the kitchen knife, think of
my throat as a clam; think of opening each clam in
each room. I’m scared to think of what might jump out:
maybe a cat maybe the woman come
to find love this season. Maybe the swallow. But I’m scared
to go down the drop & let this city die.

My friend chats with me at night; sent me a
novel she said helped her. In each chapter, self-discovery comes in blonde
hashtags; always after an accident. It’s like sudden, rushing rain it tears apart
the character– leaves me hanging upside down. Then I try to worship the fear of rain. All
these irregular heartburns: oh body, be glad. Oh inner sense be glad,
we’ll all go into the down and come out with sun discs.

Anne says to wake up is
to be born. Self-discovery is delirium war. Nuclear
but the shops will still open for Christmas. It doesn’t matter.
It’s in the alleys of body. Even without the mob that killed Jesus,
love is dangerous. It’s love that drove them to
kill him. It’s love that turns alleyways into hashtags.
Especially this that makes you suppress the
woman inside & try to exhale like ordinary boys.

It’s pretence. It’s slavery
not to find
what type of city your shoulders are shaped for.

Nobody breaks the wildness of the runway. I’m in love with
the freedom. Talking to God is chess.
However the persecution, it’s a small
diesel truck… I stand in front of its speed & use those blazing headlamps to
say I’m separate. It’s love that still holds me to the jeans; even fragile. However queer,

I’ll open the clams and let the swallow out
I’ll hold the woman’s hand & cross the street & give a fellow boy love
until kingdom comes.


OsyMizpah Unuevho writes and collects poetry and rock samples from everywhere. Member of the Hill-top Arts Foundation, he is a road photography, mental paintings enthusiast and lover of rock and feminine bands. He is at work on his debut poetry collection.

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