things, there is a spectrum of goodness.
sock wetted in a mysterious hot puddle → showerwater hitting three day grime.
that’s the range. the arms go
where they fit. feet too, slotted nice,
though no one ever mentions the feet.
if your hug partner knows you-
-’ve got the mopes, they’ll press hard
& with gusto. a long ache
will unravel like a curled
garter snake from your ribs.
you have been the glue holding
your body together. you no longer need to
be the glue.
if you’re unlucky, a brittle unhuman
sound, a frog despair, will emerge
from you without permission
right into their ear space! fingers will dig
for home in fabric, find softearth, biotreasure.
if you are lucky, your hug partner will choose for you
that you get to be re-wound together,
in the broad plains close to their heart,
a place near the armpit, but much more
metaphorically rich. if you are lucky,
they will chose your cradling, like how january
always folds chilled and protective
around a singular warm day, an exhale,
a gift after a long wait.
Chopping Off All My Hair.
i [want to] ask the purple headed hairdresser give me
the shears! i [want to] do it
myself—shape myself
into a boy.
i [want to] trade back permission
from her hands.
i want to watch all my dead
[cells] fall to the floor
and be the one to initiate the drop.
i [want to] laugh
in release. [almost] did it
myself in my little green bathroom,
[but thought, too much cleanup.]
as if shedding the harm
is anything but dutiful
and divine cleanup.
i [almost] did it.
i swallow almost
like a prayerpill.
i [almost]
a thousand great beings into creation.
On Throwing Away All My Childhood Trophies and Medals.
one day you will come home and learn your bedroom is no longer
yours. it must be
insinuated from this that there was a day
when the room was yours, and the next day not,
that a line or a name or a state of belonging
was drawn anew by time or space or you
not visiting home even when your mother asks.
there are melting boxes
in your closet that stink of your old life
and you cannot open them and you cannot throw
them away. when i found the three boxes
of medals
and trophies, i cried, who lied to me like this!
72 alloy lies. 72 half-gleams. long since i proudly
wore those little jewelries, i learned
to store a different goodness
in a new armoire—i remember one day
the glitter plastic told me i was good,
and then there came a day
where it said nothing at all.
Tara Labovich (they/them) is a lecturer of English and Creative Writing in Iowa. Their multigenre creative work explores questions of queerness, survivorship, and multicultural upbringing. Their writing has been nominated for Best of the Net and can be found in journals such as Salt Hill and Citron Review. You can find them on socials under @taralabovich
