TWO POEMS

I Did an Ugly Thing Once, But It Was In a Beautiful Room

When I knelt

at the Temple of Nature,

I keened, “O! Wreck me,

wreck my guts, daddy.”

I have given everything

to the earth that has pulled me

through a lonely winter.

What if I had loved you only enough?

We emptied the dishwasher, we ritualed

to incite self-induced preservation.

Don’t you ache not to die?

Baby, I feel so down—turn me on.

Through the tall grass: a slither,

a woman taken by the wind,

the Pepsi Cola sign, the seagulls, the noise.

In my grief over you, I run off

with a grad of the school of dope tattoos.

I give myself to a man with a dark plume.

He imagines a world without art: it’s not bad.

Poetry is often just another form of content.

You were my absolute favorite vapor flower

in the garden of the world. There’s such

a thing as suffering. I pray to the moon,

I touch myself and you are alive again.

How To Stay Politically Active While Fucking The Existential Dread Away

“Bang your tambourine! Kisss/my ass, don’t mind if they// say it’s vicious—they don’t/know what music should do to you.” – Frank O’Hara

It’s November and the dead

should stay dead.

There is no script for this,

this life, your lemon seeds

on my kitchen island.

The woods are full

of people like you,

all positive self-talk

in a lynching country.

I think I’ll miss you forever.

Once in a Freudian driven love,

I lived near a water tower

with a snack basket

and he called me his favorite

pampered lil suburb bitch.

I center myself on his gun

control and pour some salt

as if we were never here.

I am queering this shit from the inside.

No matter how many shapes I change:

I am an animal.

Forgive me of my humble dreaming

I’ll do whatever it is

that you want me to do

to you. Stop, right now. Burn

some sage and play “Runaround Sue.”

Come back when you’ve reached the chorus.

Come see me

on Tuesdays and Thursdays—

what have you got to lose?

I miss your ankles so much,

I taste it in my throat.

Ever since, I have felt like a beautiful stranger

at a nonprofit sponsored cocktail party.

There are addictions to feed

and mouths to pay. Trash

is trash is trash is trash.

On a Thursday, after a salad,

you ate me out and threw my love up.

I forgive you. I forgive myself. I release the situation.

I am blue, and unwell, you make me bolt

like a horse that stands around

my bedroom making things cry.

I like to drink and take pictures;

I want everyone to have good sex.

But don’t you forget about the dark woods.

Can’t you hear me

calling, begging you to come out and play.

Enter a synth and call my mountain ranges

by their proper names. I’m doing this

for my younger, suicidal queer self.

Pity isn’t a usable currency. I don’t care

how you feel about vengeance as justice

in five words or less.

All day, I’ve thought of re-entering The Closet

for safety’s sake. A commissioned buzz-cut,

muted earth clothes, all baritone.

My God, my God, my Mother

still asks about you.

Promise, when you’re done with me,

you’ll burn everything I ever loved

—

C. Russell Price is an Appalachian genderqueer writer originally from Virginia. They are a Lambda Fellow in Poetry, Ragdale Fellow, Literary Death Match champion, Windy City Times 30 Under 30 honoree, and a Pushcart nominee. They are the author of Tonight, We Fuck the Trailer Park Out of Each Other (Sibling Rivalry Press) and a forthcoming collection of poetry (oh, you thought this was a date?!) and essay collection (Everyone Is Doing It; They Just Aren’t Telling You).