Poetry, Micah R.M. Buchman
when i first heard your voice, i didn’t know anything but love
in all its panoply; my mother’s moles
untouched under cherry blossoms, laughing 'til tears
at the word haberdashery, glimpses of bullfrogs in weeds.
you stayed as the bathroom pipes began to drip,
my ribcage grew wider, the sun peeped through the wax bloom.
i know i must be large because i was once small;
i dreamt of my wedding table and now i reach my arms toward patches of stubble
and i learn to braid my own curls without looking,
blurring where i end and where i begin.
in your saskatoon accent, harmony and hormone sound the same.
you grow like a reed
under two thousand hours of sun, you
cover my nails with slip and potash,
you sew up nonchalance canyons and grow my hair
to my waist.
in other words,
pigeons still live in my air conditioner and
listen to you sing.
Micah R.M. Buchman is a New Yorker attending college in Claremont, California. He creates collages about transgender existence and God, kisses his friends on the mouth, and misses people-watching on the subway. His poems have been featured in The Agave Review, Carrion Press, New Words Press, ¡Pa’Lante!, and Potluck Magazine. Find him on IG @_micycle
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