On Re-lacing My Shoes
i.
when the officers first return my shoes, laces tangled beside them, i
realize i never learned the pattern of their threads. struggle to cross
the twine under itself to form an orderly set of bars.
ii.
i am Googling common+shoe+lace+tying+patterns
& most+efficient+shoe+tying+pattern
& average+tensile+strength+of+shoe+laces
& average+length+of+time+for+suffocation
& why+did+prisons+first+start+using+safety+glass+cells
& suicide+statistics+in+US+prison+system
& transgender+suicide+in+US+prison+system.
iii.
excerpt from therapy journal
new symptom: since confinement i’ve struggled with the feeling that
my shoes are too tight, laces pulled taut, bones so close to snapping like
a lock’s mouth.
iv.
list of institutional euphemisms:
special housing, protective custody, adjustment center, safety housing,
administrative segregation, softie tank
read:
solitary confinement
v.
plexiglass cells were first integrated in prison corridors to give guards
easy access to prisoners, the visibility of each cell preventing escape
attempts. there are a series of openings near the ceiling which allows
guards to administer capsicum spray without endangering officers.
vi.
excerpt from therapy journal
new symptom: extreme sensitivity to light, creating migraines & visual
hallucinations. in solitary, the lights never go out.
vii.
official explanation:
this ensures officers are capable of observing prisoners at all times.
institutional euphemism:
this is a safety measure, meant to ensure the health & well-being of
prisoners.
viii.
deprived of human interaction, prisoners begin to experience anxiety,
depression, panic, insomnia, paranoia, & increased aggression. after 72
hours of sleep deprivation, even prisoners without a history of
psychosis will begin to experience distinct hallucinations. these effects
are more pronounced in those with preexisting mental conditions.
ix.
excerpt from therapy journal
new symptom: i have forgotten how to tie my shoes. i can visualize the
pattern, like my mother taught me. the rabbit circling the tree, diving
into its warren. i remember every step. but each time it comes out a
noose.
Aubade w/ Autoimmune Disorder
“the parts of the plant where the sperm is received is called the stigma” -sam sax
+ the stigma is also a marking of disease
a red X across the door of those infected w/ the plague
[how once HIV was called the gay plague]
perhaps then the word faggot too is a stigma
when it marks a door or body
+ aren’t these both places where something is received
how when the older man face sunken as damp earth
invites me over feeds me drinks + the promise of money
i stigma my lips into entrance to receive him
he slips off the condom cums across his chest
[he will not let me taste it + i wonder again if he is dying]
his seed sprouts a bandolier of orchids blooms his palms into funeral bouquets
years later i find him on Facebook read about the drugs that keep him alive
pinioned in my cellphone’s blue light of dawn i stroke myself
to the memory of his arms + the bills stained red w/ ink
weep + cum in my own mouth hold it there miracle
of my virus-free blood dissolving like honey
-suckle candied petals across my tongue
Apologia for Snapchat of Birdless Wing
forgive me given half a chance
i’d shake the jar of fireflies
hoping to coax more brilliance from their fear
sweat sieved like bath water in Midas’ hand
watch the little glints rattled
loose of light jar smeared with sunstains
tear the snail from its geode
-curl of a shell its back peeled as half-ripe fruit
expecting some glittering secret inside
i’d take scissors to the rabbits ear
snip bloodless velvet from its skull
i’m so full of child’s arrogance
that any beauty sufficiency dissected
could be made my own i’d tear the dead star
-ling’s wing & pose it for a picture
limp omen spread like knifed fingers
i’m sorry i’ve forgotten
which of these stories are true
& which i’ve invented to upset you
i’m marveled at the slaughter
of my hands at the voyeur
sitting naked in the back of my eye
how they hunger for the fracture
of such soft things how gentle anatomy
is undone & how any veins are so alike
in their unbraiding bronze-blue
alchemied to common rust forgive me
my first thought of any body is how it empties
On Discovering my Gag Reflex, an Absence
how to tell the story? therapist says
you bury trauma in shock value; no,
that’s a lie, therapist is withholding
judgment; this makes one of you;
this story is about sex; but
it’s not; but maybe, it’d be easier
that way; his hand clenching; like
teeth; on the back of your neck; your lips
pressed to the stiff curl of fur; skin
linoleum white; how a story turns
in on itself; how fingers find the back
of a throat; attempt to reframe body
in its emptying; fail; saliva curling down
your palm like handwriting; therapist scrawls
dysphoria in her notes; saliva pools
w/ tears on white linoleum; this story
is about sex; but not how you assume
it is; words load themselves like a gun;
i say gag; you are already imagining
the scent of sweat; the sound of one body
choking on another; instead i mean
the desperate of one body to empty itself
into change; instead i mean disorder;
ketosis; acid stained teeth; how the words
do all the work for you; reframe the story;
so it tells itself; before you even
open your mouth
torrin a. greathouse is a genderqueer trans womxn & cripple-punk currently haunting the greater Boston area. She is the author of boy/girl/ghost (TAR Chapbook Series, 2018) & winner of the Peseroff Poetry Prize, Palette Poetry Prize, & the Naugatuck River Narrative Poetry Prize. Their work is published/forthcoming in POETRY, The New York Times, Poem-a-Day, Muzzle, Redivider, BOAAT, & The Rumpus. When she is not writing, her hobbies include awkwardly drinking coffee at parties & trying to find some goddamn size 13 heels.
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