leelah holmes/ two poems

I no longer duck at airplanes, but

(New York, 2003)

the sinuses remember

the cloud of dust

rolling

down Ann,

Pearl, Water,

Fulton

to cake the balconies of Southbridge

and our little wooden bunk bed

with the mismatched fish sheets.

Our mom tried to wash it all—

rip the carpet and the drywall out,

never put it up again

so nothing would be trapped there

and it would all be flushed away.

The building remembers,

pushes everything up

when the cold rolls in and the heat kicks on,

asbestos and mercury crawling

right through the vents

by my head

as I sleep.

I inhale

in the night, low,

and my sister’s body

crashes in the morning

from up, high,

jumping for a faster trip

to the ground.

Her blanket fell on the heater for the night

and I charge 10 cents to give it back.

So fine, and toasty

full of ash and bone.

---

good patient

i break my chest scar

again

right in the middle

pull & stretch the skin

until the catch

snaps

it takes some time

til a sore suns

from the worry

but it heals into a

looser latch so—

i break my chest scar

again

twist w/ fingertips

tweak pec to beat

until the latch

snaps

soon takes time

i massage til

a worry’s there

and it heals to a

thinner line so—

i break my chest scar

again

knead the dip

of pored tissue

until the line

snaps

time is a breeze

stands til cuticle

worries it still

well it heals in a

gentle crease so—

---

Leelah Holmes (he/they) lives and writes in Brooklyn, generally getting up to no good. You can find his poems in new words {press}, Chariot Press, The Dewdrop, Beyond Words, Touchstone and elsewhere.