And spring, being the people’s
season, awakens on the shoulders
of an abandoned liquor store.
The pessimists’ mundane shame
pendulums from strip mall to
fenced lot, all in good time.
A wedding band writes the
apocalypse’s pop hook on a
ukulele with three broken strings
while security cries shut up.
I awaken each night to count
still-ten toes. My midnight snack
sugar cookies stink of sourdough.
All our lies are for the children—
so we are taught to suppose.
Don’t forget those golden years,
gorging on gongs and honing
cyanide smiles. As now, we carry
strangers’ anchors upstream until
we lose them. The silence
of our mercy, we lose them.
Alix Perry is a trans writer living in Western Oregon. Their work has been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology and can be found in Kissing Dynamite, Rogue Agent, Defunkt Magazine, and elsewhere. Find out more on Instagram and Twitter @_AlixPerry_ and at alixperrywriting.com.
image: MM Kaufman