FOUR POEMS by AARON RACHEL SELBY
usps autumn colors forever stamps
I cook breakfast and tell myself good girl!
My paprika and salt repair into the dark
behind closed cabinet doors. I shake
the plate knowing the yolks will tremble
and my sunscreen expires next week. What
does the inside of my mouth smell like—
I walk to the post office. For 19 years
I was a very good girl then I was very bad.
I turn home through the park. On the slope
in front of me one tree is very straight
despite emerging from earth at an angle. Also
the grass grabs patches of sunlight
through the shadow and is quite especially green.
Now on the steep hill beside the vertical tree I
will trip because I knotted my shoelaces
only once. I will crash and land with leaves
in my hair, my skirt around my shoulders.
You want me to get up. Even if I could stand, how
would I know which direction to run in?
How would I know where to hide
Dear Reader
I have left the couscous in the appliance aisle
and danced between sponges and detergent.
I have painted a precisely cut steak
in repose. I have uneven ears. I have
thrown stones at the ducks underwater,
blocked driveways, kissed your chin,
dreamed recurring dreams of hands
in white gloves reaching and I could
not tell you whose.
I know my skin is clean because I have scrubbed it.
I know supper is when I am called.
I have a list of wrong things in my head
to recite when I’m alone: the ostrich, lawn games,
the union of nail file and nail, that porch swing, flowering
plants, flagrant demands – I lose my place.
I remain where you imagined me,
pale and muddy, on my back. Around my head
my skirt blossoms. My birchbark legs exposed.
Dinner
William takes the loaf in his hands,
presses his thumbs and tears
a small piece. He offers
with an open face. The butter
on the table. The slick hair
on his wrist. I shake my head. I stretch
my mouth from its corners. Outside
an electric car trolls for parking. It sounds
wrong. I stare. The dark
between his shirt’s ivory buttons.
How alike a throat is to a closing palm.
I want the flex of his cheek
as he speaks to me. William’s hands
on the fork and serrated knife.
The scalloped edge of my napkin.
I know how to say niçoise, what to wear
under dinner clothes. I know
what kind of thing I am.
William’s shins beneath the table.
His precision. The gentle salted butter.
I’ll put his hands around my neck
and say to him don’t squeeze
t shirt that says Protect Trans Kids
I need good news or at least
a good salad. I need an oil change.
a new swimsuit. a girl
has been dismembered
by her lover. at first I think
that’s fitting. we who love
transformation transformed
into simple pieces. like so.
I think dismember me
would be a sexy thing to say
to someone with strong arms and no
desire to hurt me. it could happen
anywhere. behind the mall. at
the reservoir. on the beige
back seat of your car. dirt road.
wire fence. on bathroom tile
my skin turns cold.
Aaron Rachel Selby is a transsexual poet living in Atlanta, Georgia. They were raised in Seattle, Washington. Aaron Rachel’s work has appeared in MudRoom, HAD, Stone of Madness, and elsewhere. You can find them on Instagram at skipjacktunawildcaught and on Substack at Dreamhorse Dispatch.