Keagan Wheat

Year One, First Friday of August


Then She Buried It


Cracking hard candy

like fractured ulna


too simple soluble.


Play a part in my

recovery. It had to

be vertical.


Counter my nat.

20 apology : every sorry

other sorry word. You

cope only reading


monologue, as I try

dialogue. I’m too

aged

much ; I want to toddle

with you : release

definite, find the length

of forever.




 


Boxed Macaroni


Recipes are there for a reason. Can I invoke

myself? Though, I know how fake

this is without the clumping reminders.

My disconnected nervous system

or inability to interpret

the needs of physicality.

Shells or elbows; yelloworange & cream.

Thing in need of repair. Sometimes

just quiet acid: stop eating myself. I’d

rather reset than barely

worthwhile scrap diagnosis.

Limiting terms translucent bottles

wrapping morning & evenings.

Delay bile until I’m alone.




 


You have to surrender to commune


Purposefully small tortillas

with the kid’s fork careful

whetting; boiling water

cohesion. Kindness

and worry parking

a drive-in Lamar lunch.

My collective diseased

pieces haven’t earned

that time or care. At least

I can control this difficulty

of my body: I can grip

rugae like reins, a lacking

appetite ruined with autoplay.

Nothing like Whataburger coke

or microwave kraft mac to ease

a running mind; contain this prescriptive life



 


If it doesn’t


Have I slept in or just

enough; I can only conjure

your voice along the chill

of ice ball. Maybe each

time I try a cheesesteak

a memorial processes.


The lost recipe ex-

changed for two beautiful

guitars collecting closet dust.

Others getting this slipped

contact. I too try

to decipher inactive days


and callous images.

I know my funerals

stress my liver;

I don’t think

I’ll ever learn.

No matter how sick


alcohol makes me,

I’d down Moose

Drool fifty six days,

if you just might

walk into the Maple

Leaf. Runaway


from the closing prescriptions

when they’ve only saved me.





 

Keagan Wheat (he/they), a born and raised Houston poet, writes about trans identity and congenital heart disease. His work appears in The Acentos Review, Kissing Dynamite, ALOCASIA, and more. They are the author of microchapbook, Come to the Table (Black Stone/ White Stone 2022); he has a forthcoming chapbook, Pressure Come Back through Bullshit Lit. Check out his interviews with Brooklyn Poets, Latinx Lit, and Poets and Muses. Find them @kwheat09.


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