Lazarus, after Doubt Comes In & LIBIDO in a time of vacancy

Lazarus, after Doubt Comes In

All the snakelike things writhing in my gut,
the way plaid calls itself houndstooth, these
patterns showing themselves
in composite. Tell me the crosseyed
were damned and I’d believe
you. I could never trust
the mercy of dilation. Too careless a trust,
to snake blood from your gut
up to your optic nerves. In belief,
the crosseyed are born unblind. These
yearners born broken, born crosseyed.
The serpents ever-yielding to themselves
a burden: to call themselves
serpents. This kind of self-definition a trust
beyond trust. Call the crosseyed crosseyed
and they’ll snap into focus. Tell the gut
to bleed and it will. These
kinds of injury a blessing, to believe
your body a body. The belief
your limbs will slough themselves
is not unfounded– all of these
miracles temporary, after all. Trust
in recovery and you’ll be gutted
time and time again. The crosseyed
a kind of reborn. The crosseyed,
if they are to be believed,
happily interstitial. My gut
an ulcer unto itself. Certainties themselves
rotting into nothing. The final trust
of death, too, gone. All of these
maladies without end. These
limbs only scar tissue. Me, crosseyed,
even with repentance. With trust,
I could know pain had an end. Believe
in anyone and they’ll tell themselves

you’re saved. Even after your gut’s
gone bloody. If only the blurred
would unblur again. Until then
I’ll rot further and further. Death
a mercy beyond mercy. Everything only beyond itself.


LIBIDO in a time of vacancy

And after all this, I curl up
in a chlorine shawl. My shoulders
draped in swimming pool. My

nose dripping with isopropyl. Everything
like this, disinfected. Undangerous. I am
the wolf-faced lamb. The battery torn
loose from the coupe. If only
you’d teach me how to love. The wolf
without technique. Without experience.
There is no practice
for sex. For love, yes, but for
Love, no. Let me shapeshift
and I’ll do as your body wants. Teach
me how to turn feral and we'll eat
out every night this week. Decadent with
forbidden fruit. Learned only in
breaststroke and making out. Eyes rubbed
raw from swimming laps. The YMCA a
cathedral of chlorine. Moonlight crashing through glass,
refracting through water and
declaring me guilty. The lamb without an
excuse. The water, without knowing, asleep
in my lungs. Teach me how to fuck
and I’ll learn how to breathe.




Alrisha Shea is a 17 year old student going into Bioinformatics in undergrad. They can be observed in their natural habitat @alrisha_s on Twitter. Their work is published or forthcoming in Outlook Springs, Crab Fat Magazine, Dirty Paws Poetry, and others. Their chapbook, Cicada Girl / Locust Boy is forthcoming from corrupt press.

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