Things Are Looking Up
says the evening news anchor, and so I do—look up—
at the robin’s egg blue of the ceiling. I gaze
at the constellation of recessed lights that flicker
when the heater cycles on and off, follow each
crease of the hawk and trowel plaster. What previous
owner smoothed and sharpened this expanse? Who chose this
color to hover above the green grass cabinets?
Were you the same one who set the hilt of a fern
in the sunniest spot on this plot, to brown despite
my best attempts? Even now, it unfurls new fronds
that tap at the glass where I press my palm flat to match
all those hands mapped in ochre on the walls of caves
in Argentina, Indonesia, Spain, before land
had those names. Still, we live tucked away, gods of small
underworlds, chambers made by labor to conceal us
as we build lives in our kitchens, on our couches,
awake in our beds, passing time like Persephone
mining in the dark her secret treasure: the spark
of recalling her pleasure from looking at the sky.
—with gratitude to and a phrase pilfered from Walt Whitman
Care and Feeding
The leech clung to your thigh as you rose from the lake. I plucked it away,
placed a kiss upon the wound so I could taste what it had tasted.
I wanted the rusted metal of your blood on my tongue. We did not fear
disease—or not enough. We met in parking lots, got naked in beds
of pickup trucks, in parks by the river’s edge. We did not know how
to be birds after so much human handling. We were nearly featherless.
If we fell from some nest, we fashioned new ones from undone strings, from loosed
buttons. Unfinished in our summer skins, dusted in gold pollen,
I clasped my lips to hipbone, to nipple. I have this tenderness I’ve kept
in my pocket, worn smooth as a coin beneath my thumb’s mindless caress.
On sunny days, I bring it out to glint at the robins singing
cheer up from their trees. Your broad back under thin cloth. The ease of your bare chest
amid a sea of wild bee balm. My fickle and liquid flit. Salt kick.
Soft down of your coverts under my palms. The fold and spread of wings
in each field we could find. Your mouth open, upturned, waiting to feed on mine.
About the Author:
Jennifer Perrine is the award-winning author of four poetry books: Again, In the Human Zoo, The Body Is No Machine, and No Confession, No Mass. Jennifer serves as an editor for Airlie Press and a guest editor for Broadsided Press, co-hosts the Incite Queer Writers reading series, and hosts The Occasion, a poetry radio show on KBOO FM in Portland, Oregon. When not writing, Jennifer leads workshops on creative writing, social justice, and intersectional equity. Read more at www.jenniferperrine.org.
About All Accounts:
All Accounts and Mixture is an annual online feature celebrating the work of LGBTQIA+ writers and artists. For this series, we seek work from authors who self-identify as "queer," while acknowledging that this designation is subjective and highly personal. Our goal is to provide a forum for writers whose voices might be mis- or underrepresented by the literary mainstream. Submissions are open from June 1 to July 1. Poetry, prose, visual art, reviews and interviews will all be considered. Visit Submittable for more details.