Aubade at T Jins: Night 3

Keagan Wheat

Barring the occasion, this almost felt
like a vacation but we always return
in the morning after a spring mattress
tucked into silver-flower bed frame.

In the hospital hall, I danced
even as it pumped my pulse
flooded my nostrils with light sterile gasps
felt as homey as deathly, the stifle
of plastic bands and electric nests.

I smiled after holding air to keep
my breathing down
tried to shade my defects, just two normal
young people:
I’m not the visited.

That superman jacket layered under black denim
makes you look nothing like the soft nerd you are.
I’m not sure how many soda refills I had;
I know you made me a maroon and white crane,
sticky and stiff offered across the table.

We shower together, a masculine 3-in-1
with a kind fragrance coating and slipping
from our skin.

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.


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