After Hernan Bas’ On the Jagged Shores
The coast of a puddle copies the way the Carolinas push
on the North Atlantic verbatim. Appalachia still means everything
to me, but I assume I could find it somewhere else if I looked.
There are a finite number of patterns in nature. Everything
has its doppelganger and nowadays I plagiarize men’s
bodies indiscriminately. I have a right to take what’s not mine;
this is what both men and the earth have taught me. In rural America
everyone is having an orgy in the bushes and calling it three hail Marys.
Poached white-tailed deer film the debauchery for leverage
in the next century and I still want to mouth cruise my way through
all the boys that threatened to rape me in high school. These roads
are hot with H veins and ATVs winding through private
property. In rural America the switchbacks are built to disorient
and it is nearly impossible to be trans and alive, but here I am:
dizzy and gay and wanting to fix something I didn’t break. Nowadays
I want to return home just so I might remember something good
or recognize nothing through the pine-dark. Where I grew up
I knew only one kind boy. He could build every inch
of the world with an Etch A Sketch. And I like to think, he
is the only reason the ground is holding us up at all.