Still & Still


His sexts show off new panties
hugging their hands on his ass—
he the candelabra in the mirror—
figure with flames too distant
to blow out. You leave him some
dirty talk, a constellation that dries
on your hands for him.
             In a dream
a woman doesn’t believe these
condoms are for you. She’s mad
you have sex at all. So you sleep
with her, you—
             Wake in a dark bed,
to pull yourself out feels hard
as rubbing one out just so you don’t
have to later, eating so you aren’t
hungry later. Still, you tend
your body like a stained counter,
scrubbing until all trace
of human touch is washed away.


I the boy who eats other boys—
tongue dipped in their scars
and teeth woven tattoos.
He a gun that follows its fire
to catch its bullet. He say snowball
I say snowfall. Say deer track
through white quiet like words
sinking their stakes on a page.
He say wild when I got a fistful
of his hair. I throw mud clumps
in the river. Eat soil. Am soil.
Am what takes your water,
that cradles and caws even
when your claws leave gouges
when your antlers gouging
my teeth still receive your throat.
Still so much thrashing gets named love.


Jaye Harper (she/her) is a trans woman from Oklahoma who teaches writing in Michigan. If you want to contact her for a collaboration, read more of her work, or to fight her you can visit her here.

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