Gion Davis

To the person who set the oldest living bald cypress on fire while trying to smoke meth

You will have to write your name on the world too. You are not
a practitioner of any caustic humility. The ancients should keep
our secrets sketched into glyphs of violets and crimson clover firing
along the Dale Earnhardt parkway. Anywhere, ever, forever
dead things smell the same as the alligator folded on the shoulder.
You ordered a book about the economy and got one about grief. You
said strawberry and your boyfriend heard facility. You thought
about leaving your life and got out your knife to cut down
sunflowers and stack them on the dashboard. Somewhere,
this is unique. One of you is printing out matchbook
sized bibles to leave on a urinal in South Carolina. Another one
takes your fingers to say he only has 24 T cells left to his name.
Barnacles cluster like butterflies on the pilings. You looked
at the strangers of progress and saw pines.
 

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.