THREE POEMS by NAT RAUM
pov: you’re my vibrator and i’m actually using you as a massager for once
the buzz is the same
frequency as my neck
would crack if tilted—
hitachi on spine, hum
ming like honeybees,
nurturing knots out of
bruised body. nape
of neck disintegrates
into soft muscle; trap
ezius frees itself from
tense scapulae. un
crunch vertebrae &
seize the fucking day.
now i roll over & start
by kissing myself with
a rubber tongue—re
laxed as a melody,
resplendent as spring.
5-4-3-2-1
old beach towel, tissue box,
adirondack chair, vape, tin
of mints (all are blue).
fuzzy blanket, surface
of couch, laptop keys,
& finger skin on skin.
hawk calling, psoriasis
medication commercial, one side
of muffled phone call.
crisp forest air, beset
by dirt. peach cobbler vapor
exhaled through nostrils.
an authentic blend
of twenty-three flavors
out of a tin can.
can’t keep me down
after “18 Wheeler” by P!nkone time i called myself a cockroach and my lover
couldn’t bear the thought of me as a dirtycrunchy
thing so he looked up other animals known
for survival, discovered that emperor penguins make
harsh conditions their bitch, but i still don’t think
i’m a bird. i mean, yes, in the sense that i wrap
myself in the whipping winds of the antarctic
like my skin is a surface of fur—i brave a barren
whiteout winter and still stand in the sunlight
come the big thaw, battered but triumphant.
and i don’t like anything that wriggles across
my floorboards uninvited, but i still see myself
with waxbrown exoskeleton and bouncing
antennae, familiar with crevices most others
would look over. either way, i have wings—
whether i swim through frozen waters or hover
in the orangeglow of lamplight, whether the adversity
is winter or simply city. the point is, attempts
to suppress me have all been futile, for i am not only
awake; i am breathing in time with the breeze.
nat raum (they/them) is a tired little guy with a heart of gold. They run fifth wheel press and have also published many books. More @ natraum.com/links.