Poetry:
milagro
moreno
Forgery in a Red Dress
After Safia Elhillo
i forge a dark purple down
the curve of my lip a river
my tongue crosses a lisp
that bobs for breath
i forge a blue wing above
the fat of my eyes
a checkpoint i cross blind
i want to believe if
i forge a blade down my legs
i will step into another
country that the only distance
between love & loneliness
is beauty so i wear a dress
& high heel through slush
beneath it my want contra
dicts herself
flying featherless
toward the light
i have never known
a beauty without wings
Forgery in a Bathtub
— / / — / — — — / — —
—bathtub covered in em dashes—black / /
— — / confetti—a constant state— — /
— of interruption—jamming / — —
/ / — / — the razor—clogging the sink — —
/ — —even time—suspended — / /
— / / in this graying water—my — / — —
/ legs—amor—the same — —
/ — / golden brown you’d giggle — — / —
/ — / — & split—before my tongue / / — /
fuck—for a second—I loved myself
— / — — —as once—I did you— / — /
it’s no longer—on my legs but hair—
/ / — / is everywhere— — — / —
the walls—my chest—floating / /
/ — / — —like wet kindling—
/ — if this is what it takes— — —
— / / to love myself—I never will /
— / — — my love, a Samson—in reverse— // — / —
/ — / —untouchable in its curve
/ / — / — — — / / — / — — — / — —
Trans/lation as a Fever Dream in the Voice of Oliver Cowdery
These days were never to be forgotten … to sit under the sound of a voice dictated by the
inspiration of heaven …
storm-drunk clouds sweaty with rain no lightning knows
such holy terror furious ink igniting verses sparkling sparkless
the prophet’s thunderous cough & stutter purls of wisdom
my bewitched hand grateful for this slavery the shaft of his
pen, his urim & thummin virile, viral the way crowds crawled
to his boot, healing saints, heeling snakes
o philosopher
o historian, journalist whatever names christen your ravenous doubt
there were no plates in sight except insight truth 100 proof
only a poor man & his priceless pearl only a poor man
demands gold before his god
Trans/lation where only the faithful can read the white space
i have never seen her thick black hair the wilt of her waist twisting
seaflower slippery dark beneath fingers the half-breath between breasts
tits wrinkled as laughter legs patient as crab claws
the glowing shaft of her neck in the sun the wet sand sucking her toes
the saltwater scent her strong mouth the impatient grip
of her fingers the navel’s silent nod to go lower
yes, right there
no, i have never seen the woman i believe lives caught somewhere
behind the veil but let me speak to you translate her weight
if we wrap a prayer around our necks if i starve myself
if we have enough faith
she will appear can you see her?
she’s right here
There’s not enough space in my closet for these thighs
I am in search of garments
for the shape of my grief,
a joy that doesn’t tear
over the thunk of her ass.
A scarf to smother
each roll of her neck.
There are dreams, stair
running my spinal column
dry. Anyone who walks
the length of longing
knows heel is what you name
a lost cause. Ask
any woman named Chastity
about desire.
Every wound needs a dress,
& there is not enough
space in my closet
for these thighs.
I have fists gripping
hangers, the lowcut
nosebleeds I wore
down my breasts
searching for love
in seduction
like every ditzy
dipsomaniac.
I want pink Timberlands
to crush the jaws
of the men who drug
-fucked my girlfriend.
I want their molars
diamond-crusted
on my fingers.
Let them never
be identified.
Her favorite article
of clothing is a pair
of cuffs.
I’ll let you decide
if she’s a criminal
or a freak-a-leek.
If you ever catch
her, strutting in these
streets, know
she has never loved anyone
who has survived.
Ask her what
happened to the ones
she fucked.
My Body as a Gordian Knot
my kingdom is a conundrum
of hips & thumbs. ears
slippery as a mouthful
of dark mollusks. toes
with nails sharp as dirty
coins. my kingdom
is full of beggars. especially
my hands, my cannibal
throat, my blood-pink
hammer & hardened hope.
an ox-man has tied my lord
to the bed. tamed him
in the unbearable pinch
of his calloused hands,
in the tight-lipped grip
of his silent mouth.
if you have not inhaled
oxen breath, felt the hot blade
of his horns pierce
into your flesh, the fierce
brawn & breastbone
pressed against your lungs
before the tryst & trample,
you have never been
a mangled beast.
you see, everything
in my kingdom enjoys
being twisted, coiled
& kinked like a snake
hidden in a vine. or a vein.
i hold myself in such a tight
embrace, i cannot let go
if i wanted to. i am a gordian’s
knot of autophilia. what better
way to hold every pit & sprain,
every phobia barbed
to my cheek, every memory
made sacred by its mystery?
what better way to know me
than to search for parts of me
even i have yet to see?
the man who unties this knot
is the ruler of my kingdom,
my hunger, my hope
made of splayed legs & gentle
teeth, my body, bonded
to its bondage—the ox
as it huffs its hunk,
as it drives forward
as it tears its horns
through the knot.
milagro moreno is a genderfluid trans femme scorpio raised in the southwest. Her favorite color is inside-of-a-mango yellow. She wants to see Megan, Thee Stallion and Zuli, La Duraca collaborate. In her free time, she practices Daoist Qi Gong and is training to be a b-girl. She would tell you more, but she don’t know you like that. Follow her @la.lenguita.afilada on IG.
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