Histoire D’amour
after Nikolai Zykov’s flying puppets
Then, I glowed lattice and ladder.
A boddice of between. In the dark I left the ground.
My gender cutting holes in shadows. Portholes
and gloryholes. Meeting selves on the other side.
Across an invented expanse, nothing arrived
but noise-less birds and their strawberry kin.
Then I fell victim to blue’s promises.
Held onto pink beliefs of rapture and salvation.
Weightless, my legs as horizon damages.
You never saw the real me and neither did I.
Too many trestles to under-over. The laces
of my old gravity. Pulled whirlpool into you.
Then I returned. Tripped over whale oaths.
Emerged completely changed. No more
memories of dirt. Only the night sky’s ragged tongue.
Sand paper moon, make me shine like she used to.
Her eclipse halo, the only remaining mouth.
I reenact again our bliss and bone.
La Pascualita Sees Her Reflection
For over 80 years in Chihuahua, Mexico local legend holds that La Pascualita, a “mannequin” in a
local shop window, is the preserved corpse of the original shop owner’s
daughter, who died tragically on her wedding day.
Since I was born, even the sun had eight legs.
If only you could have seen my hands before—
soft and edible. I lived spitting petals from my mouth.
Wrapped a shawl around a yucca tree to dance with
by the white sound of moon. My father tended me.
I stared up at him from a table where we used to sew together.
Dresses for weddings—ruffles blooming from his fingers.
Memories of girls twirling. Their bones like flutes—
air moving through them. How each filled with children.
Homes swallowing them. I fell in love easily
like a bowl of mangoes spills from the table.
Bruises on my spirit. He ate from me the future.
In my eyes I still see his reflection. His dark hair
and strong jaw. The way he took my hand as someone would
the reigns of a horse. I wanted to be crafted. My father
painted each lash. Now, even he is gone.
I am fading or else I am getting closer to being ready.
Sometime, I think I see my fiancé on the street.
He stands still while others move then he is gone.
Veil pours from my skull. More and more each day.
Soon this will be a store of only my tulle and lace.
A wedding is a day that’s always coming. Look at my lips:
pink as a rosary. Moving him thumb across them.
Was it my father or my lover who last caressed them?
Put his sturdy warm hand on my neck. Told me it was not too late.
Robin Gow is a trans and queer poet and MG/YA author. They are the author of several poetry collections and an essay collection, as well as the YA verse novel, A Million Quiet Revolutions.
