Aubade Already Gone

Keagan Wheat

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

through blinds

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