S. YARBERRY

Gesture Towards Immortality

The panting of
               pornography
fills an utter
               silence—
a body opens
               I want it. I want it.

I traverse, factually.

                                             Though,
a bristiling transformation
               does
take place. The eyes
               reassemble.
               oh yes   yes
A building sprouts.
               Pools modulate.

Encore! Encore!

Trespasser of beauty—
I want to be taken.
Taken away. Taken apart.

The screen
               shutters
like an eye-
               blink.

I strip. I strip
               down
I strip
               tease.

ur sucha tease,
               she once said.

Oblivion felt good, now
doesn’t. Don’t touch me. Months spiraled:
               —cloudy— technicolor—
nonspecific.

In New York,
               she brushes
the hair
               on my upper lip….
tender
               as one might
touch
               a creature in a tank.

Two fingers—

We brainstorm
               safe words—
ocean, I say. Ocean. We love
               to talk.

We fuck. We lol. We admit.

               ur so
                                           abt me

               asleep smelling of u

Distance breaks us down.

               did u make it

               did u make it
                                          home

It’s as if
               only
when in pieces
               I find
myself again.

Emanation Song

How unequipped we are. We always are.
Stalled car outside. Metallic hum:
waiting to wail. The conscience
is gilded. The conscience
is splotched.

Imagery: pornographic hungers.
Difficult conversations.

What if I was?
If I was at all.
A shapeshift past.
I brush snow.
How easy it is
to be tender.

Stars— dandelions, guillotined.

In the dream there is abundance.
Not of stars. Not of lions. The self,
overpoured. I fall into my own horror.
Late night wantings. A gruesome touch.
Having to speak it.

Dear Prince of Love,
are we all splinters
of your persona? You,
my depth. My woolen cloth.
Tell me a dreamy desire.
The world wants you in it:
undressed and beckoning.

Everything touched has been waiting.

I despair! I disengage.

Tits perky in the cool spring. All tight and what if.
Late night. Slipshod bodies. Dark bar. The ruthless truth
of your flamboyant tongue. You never mean to hurt me.
Inciting honesty upthrusts a self that shudders like a spectre.
but you do hurt me. The city havoc whistling what? what?
hey sir. You give me a secret kiss.
I used to know your mouth like a practiced handshake.
Now a kiss is like a hush-hush: but I wanna. The city lies open
like it's baring its chest at me. Brandishing. Brandishing
and beautiful. I’m breathless.

S. Yarberry is a trans poet and writer. Their poetry has appeared in, or is forthcoming in, Tin House, Indiana Review, The Offing, Berkeley Poetry Review, jubilat, Notre Dame Review, Sixth Finch, among others. Their other writings can be found in Bomb Magazine and Blake/An Illustrated Quarterly. S. has a MFA in Poetry from Washington University in St. Louis where they now hold the Junior Fellowship in Poetry. They currently serve as the Poetry Editor of The Spectacle.