(transition as) times i almost decomposed
as mosquitoes a forgotten dark sliver in the canopy more poison than
blood streaming through my veins my body so hot my
mother said it almost glowed
as ostrich meat that my father made us eat i regret nothing more
than eating speed on land as if it was nothing but a
skewer
as lichen i turned into dust to try and be algae & fungi
& a mirror for insects to be used for everything that
needs to be built
as sea lettuce sticking on the soles of my feet often picked up
& held against the sun to see its lack of veins
sometimes shredded like tissues rarely deep fried &
crushed between teeth
as pigeons whose corpses i almost stepped into more times that i can
count their necks bent at too acute angles i meet
them on every street as if they were dropping from the
sky instead of rain
as someone i was not is sleep really that similar to death? asleep i have been
everyone and someone else: a woodpecker a cowboy
a werewolf even a sea storm even my past self
as deep deep purple could rot ever bruise? could it ever match my skin
when i press fingers into flesh and let them sink too
much hoping to reach deep within the soil
like when in summer the asphalt slightly melts and my thumb can feel hot softness giving in
Robin Steve is a trans queer poet and researcher. They live in Dublin, where they are pursuing a PhD in creative writing. Their research, funded by the Irish Research Council, focuses on the intersections between trans poetics, trans ecologies, and trans temporalities. Their poetry has been published on Honest Ulsterman, Abridged, and Impossible Archetype. They are a member of the Trans* Research Association of Ireland (TRAI), which you can find here. You can find Robin on both instagram and twitter at: @robinsteve189.