Joe Nasta
dangerous even though asleep and unarmed
“He used to be pretty for a rat.” - John Ashbery
a rhythmic body woke up naturally they
made a pot of coffee they
gulped it down black they
stretched their arms overhead they
plucked a carnation from the vase they
held its sinew in their fingers they
whimpered as teeth sank into gums they
woke in agony // oh, am I still alive? they
wondered and cried for seventeen seconds they
could not lick their cheeks, but they
tasted mud // did they
remember to floss? // had they
remembered their tongue? they
did not, no // a deep grumble
the white carnation’s throat sprouted
fangs, glinting mirror, a window they
tried biting the glass unbelieving, rubbed
raw gums on me, a beaked reflection they
woke up and became a bird outside our body they
cooked bacon and eggs but ate worms they
fell into prosaic rhythms vigorously they
shrieked through the glass at me they
flapped my wings
and our feet planted into the ground they
moved our chest, wings, arms, stems forward. they
lifted us. a rhythmic body.
Tuesday
Gently vacant, the street
littered with birds.
I shouted but it was too early. No
one was around.
I walked the middle of the road. I’m
embarrassed of things
I say and how quickly I forget.
Grey, as the wings
scattered.
Oh, he laughed, you are
so young. I had
to leave. What would I do, unafraid?
The whole night
neither of us slept. Oh, I am too many
things. In the growing light
I yawned, looked at myself
from different angles.
My body
reminds me of something else.
A long week
The week does begin again.
When I raise my arms over my head
my fingertips meet and I become a time loop.
Both of my shoulders are windy Mondays.
When I coil my lips into an “Oh?” all of me
travels backward in time uncontrollably.
I hate endings, but if I twist in secret ways
I will never, ever end.
Steal a glimpse of the mirror,
my body locked forever in time and glass.
I can’t resist myself, head cocked, and suddenly
I can be a Tuesday afternoon in grass.
Maybe once things did feel right.
Get on my knees and crawl,
name my lips and tongue Wednesday, Thursday, Friday,
open towards a shine, a glint, anything golden
I can hold in my mouth as if nothing
changes or had, for one minute, moved
away from me. For one minute I will
bite into nothing but sour air. I will
say it, I will move my lips and say it,
“Oh, Oh!” and none of it will matter again.
Joe (ze/zir) is a queer multimodal artist and writer who works in Seattle and writes love poems. Ze is one half of the art and poetry collective Eat Yr Manhood, head curator of Stone Pacific Zine, and a member of the team at Voice Lux Press. Zir work has been published in The Rumpus, Occulum, Peach Mag, dream boy book club, and others. Zir first book “I want you to feel ugly, too” was released as a handmade limited edition in 2021. Find Joe on Instagram as @jaynasty77 and @roflcoptermcgee.
