I woke up on Earth and owed rent
I arrive as a stranger every time, shivering or shimmering
beneath a highway’s lovehandle before dissipating into the median.
As far as we know, they were mopping the floors
in Amarillo. The towering flatness of Texas loomed beside us
knifing across acres of bluebonnets, a house abandoned to the sky
pouring in both ends of the shotgun swallowed by the stain
the sun left behind for a goatheaded moon. When I get home,
my life will change. A dogwood branch touched the crevice
between islands in the Tennessee. A daughter sat barelegged
on the back of a motorcycle in a white football helmet. The Atlantic
was ochre green and indifferent to my body. Lift up that pot
on the porch to see a country flowering with evil miracles.
Show us the skink shining in the light
like a house key.
beneath a highway’s lovehandle before dissipating into the median.
As far as we know, they were mopping the floors
in Amarillo. The towering flatness of Texas loomed beside us
knifing across acres of bluebonnets, a house abandoned to the sky
pouring in both ends of the shotgun swallowed by the stain
the sun left behind for a goatheaded moon. When I get home,
my life will change. A dogwood branch touched the crevice
between islands in the Tennessee. A daughter sat barelegged
on the back of a motorcycle in a white football helmet. The Atlantic
was ochre green and indifferent to my body. Lift up that pot
on the porch to see a country flowering with evil miracles.
Show us the skink shining in the light
like a house key.
Gion Davis is a trans poet from Española, New Mexico where he grew up on a sheep ranch. His poetry has been featured in HAD, MAYDAY Magazine, Sprung Formal, and others. His debut collection Too Much (2022) was selected by Chen Chen for the 2021 Ghost Peach Press Prize. He graduated with his MFA in Poetry from the University of Massachusetts Amherst in 2019 and currently lives in Denver, Colorado. Gion can be found on Instagram @starkstateofmind & on Twitter @gheeontoast.
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