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Avery Yoder-Wells


don’t look at me yet, my god—

I am still pulling myself together,


knees tangled in your kitchen carpet,

winching my tongue back through


my mouth, scrambling for a shirt

with the hands you cultivated


in your vegetable garden

while you told me, my mother


always said I talked too loud.

While you spun life like the moon


spins tides, slick around the wheel,

you told me my father’s skin

was cold with blood clots.
When you sewed your ambition


into my hope, the night hid both of us.

Just give me a second, please. I’ll cover


the body you know too well to love,

slide a bra over my rib, tell you,


if my blood doesn’t warm us
enough, close your eyes,


I can light your whole kitchen on fire.

Avery Yoder-Wells (they/them) is a trans, queer poet who loves a game of Boggle and has never won a game of Monopoly. Their work can be found in Split Lip Mag, Aurora Journal, Peach Mag, Portland Review, Ice Lolly Review, and elsewhere. They lurk on Twitter at @averyotherwise.

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