August
by Aoife Smith
Series of weeks that will grind through me, broken
by a day that hints at more than endurance. Outburst
of body as more than soft machine who ferries me
from day to day. I want for my limbs to feel this joy
undeniably, float weightless in the ocean without thirst
to dip under longer than my lungs can hold. Here is
to being the eddy I am. Trying not to apologize for
constant traffic of change, who I someday might be--
a deer unafraid of roads because she calls the woods
home. Not removal from the world, or shelter from
every car hurtling towards ruin, just ability to run full
and loose in any direction. Really I am trying to forge
my arms open and cry when my body takes up the mantle.
Swallowing and swallowing as not to spit out the big
feelings, letting them plummet, pummel me. Standing up,
riding again. Cigarette butts of joy mid smolder roosted
in my lips, glinting like brass on a horse’s back as I open
myself to a possible trampling. Ever lurking chance of
having the shit beat out of me by survival is graspable;
the sharp trace of a lilac bush turning with fall.
by a day that hints at more than endurance. Outburst
of body as more than soft machine who ferries me
from day to day. I want for my limbs to feel this joy
undeniably, float weightless in the ocean without thirst
to dip under longer than my lungs can hold. Here is
to being the eddy I am. Trying not to apologize for
constant traffic of change, who I someday might be--
a deer unafraid of roads because she calls the woods
home. Not removal from the world, or shelter from
every car hurtling towards ruin, just ability to run full
and loose in any direction. Really I am trying to forge
my arms open and cry when my body takes up the mantle.
Swallowing and swallowing as not to spit out the big
feelings, letting them plummet, pummel me. Standing up,
riding again. Cigarette butts of joy mid smolder roosted
in my lips, glinting like brass on a horse’s back as I open
myself to a possible trampling. Ever lurking chance of
having the shit beat out of me by survival is graspable;
the sharp trace of a lilac bush turning with fall.
Aoife Smith is a trans poet and fiber artist. Their work has appeared in print and online in Puca Magazine, Oroboro Lit, petrichor Magazine, and elsewhere. Aoife is a MFA candidate at Columbia University.