Joe Nasta: I Will Never Be Human Again
Photo: Joanna C. Valente
Anthem
This morning, the light streaming through the window felt queer
on my face. Or having these cheeks and nose and eyes did.
Any face, or this one. Mine. The breeze on my toes sticking
out from the blanket, and the heat of my legs under the wool.
Being in bed and inside of a body. Sweat stuck to the skin
of my hips, my inner thighs, my scrotum: this all mine and me
a body rising from unconsciousness as if that were natural.
The sound of chirping birds was a song I did not write,
but I listened. I woke up when the song hit me like light.
The bird beaks pricked my skin.
This morning, the light was queer when it hit me.
I rose and left my body. I flew to the birds.
agender
The terrace opened wide.
They were no longer just a bird
behind the clouds. Mid-afternoon
they landed in this shape.
No time for flying. Their wings glinted
then dulled. Feathers filled the air.
Their whistling song, molt.
Their talons and fangs.
More than just black feathers
their bones began to shift,
but when they landed in this shape
they did not become a man.
Glinting, then dull feathers. The air
is more of a body than any shape
talons fangs
legs face.
Bones shift and melt
skin scales.
They did not become a man.
A coiled snake.
More a body any shape,
the smoggy morning and the dead of night.
Legs and face could never hold them.
They folded as they fell, transmogrify.
Melt their skin, scaled.
They glinted dulled
became
the many balconies below the sun.
(the gargoyle at the Hotel Sorrento finally closes its eyes)
I’m lately blurring all these sunny afternoons:
my gurgling sounds the same as drying up.
A lost seagull paces my turrets,
flaps her wings out of context,
flies away. In the garden, the tables
are marble, sparkling, round
and the people who visit
toast flutes of rosé. Meanwhile,
my drink settles into layers
purple then brown, but
I spit it all out red: my mouth
is a gutter of rain and blood.
The boy who returned every spring,
his fleshy hand waving, I remember.
He is old now, or dead. Gone.
I used to be like him, but I wished
for too much. I thought I’d be regal
and stoic. Now I know
these chipped wings are useless.
The stones of my courtyard only age.
I will never be human again.
These poems originally appeared in our ebook The Queer Body.
Joe Nasta is a queer writer and mariner who splits his time between Seattle, New York, and the ocean. Joe has studied with Brooklyn Poets, Winter Tangerine, and Corporeal Writing. Their work has been featured by Brooklyn Poets The Bridge, Running Wild Press, and Yes Poetry. They edit a zine of unconventional art and writing from the PNW and beyond at stonepacificzine.com and can be found on Instagram and Twitter @roflcoptermcgee.
