Aubade Already Gone
Each time a tongue sweeps thin valley
I worry a gentle tug will reopen.
Blue Bell homemade vanilla
stirred to just milkshake consistency
Stitches I can’t remember;
the depth of lids between waning muscle
covers the walls. With extinct decals
running the headboard and desk.
And slipping pink
I need a visible memory.
Sometimes he still calls that chip bag bed ours;
too loud for secrets of accidental bloody lips.
Not the quick skin crawl
departure of soft touch.
Glitter without exhaustive cleaning slides
Keagan Wheat writes about FTM identity and CHD. Find his poetry in The Acentos Review, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, and more. Living in Houston, he enjoys collecting dinosaur facts and listening to many hours of podcasts.
© Variant Literature Inc 2021