desire is poured upon your lovely face
aphrodite has honored you exceedingly
BY LOGAN FEBRUARY
staring at beautiful men will get me killed someday
let it be a good glossy death over the phone I talk my shit
as the moon sinks into its own velvet his bliss in my ear
like a cherry blossom in real life I’m gangly and
graceless Boy Long Legs I am asked to be insecure
and not know I’m alive but here’s sustained eye-contact
for you I reopen my petals at least remember their tender hue
neglected the violets will not survive the night is this
what fear tastes like this acid metal legs won’t go
where eyes go I said carefree and not death wish
the blade gleams that we live so close to I must obey
here life is short even though everyone says life is short
today I feel I am holding onto warm water and falling
(This title is taken from Sappho’s fragment 112, translated by Anne Carson)
The dead boy is poured back into his body
BY LOGAN FEBRUARY
in this magnificent heat, and for this reason his legs are
a gospel. A ringlet of black hair wound around the air’s crooked
finger.
I’m talking about power, current
events foster flashback: defibrillate.
Embellish the gasp so it becomes a seam in the lung, a place to say
it started, the learning of warmth a second time.
A bird perched on the scarecrow’s shoulder
without hungry intent. So you realize you are alive, now what? You
leave
the sugar out and complain of ants. Tremble, I command. Then I
ask,
why do you tremble? Object in mirror may be uglier than it
appears.
Perhaps sadder.
Perhaps object in mirror is not in mirror at all.
Share your loss, o quiet creature of thirst. I imagine a spark’s
reflection
should also electrify something. You are left with ants, a pilgrimage
of them.
On the pillow case,
in your wine glasses. On your way to class.
In Twitter DMs. In your sleep. Sure, you can cauterize a void, but
you have a gap even in your teeth. You cry into his pillow so he
dreams of you
at night. Sunny rain, lion cub. Delicate inertia. The mortician wakes
up
already drunk on bad wine.
All that is asked: what are you carrying, put it down.
(This title is taken from Safia Elhillo’s “Alternate Ending”.)
