First
- May 18, 2022
- 1 min read
by Remi Recchia
What would you say now, my first, knowing that I’m bigger? That my forearms’ muscles have muscles? That while I used to trim sparingly,
I now cut nothing except the golden follicles crowning my head like an ostrich his plumes, blooming
deep black and handsome cream. Soon I will resemble my whiskered
father. I try his ties on in the mirror and always resist the noose. My eyes have laid
perfect eggs in praise of the future. They tremble
under the noonday sun. Phantom pain echoes through my ring finger. It remembers the promises
we branded to our skin when we were sick and young in love. You worshipped a girl
that did not exist. My right thigh, once a hazard, is a safely-zoned construction
site. Up close, a man can see the dots marking intramuscular self. A transformation
as glorious as the cross. Who can wear me on his neck. Who can stomach the dawn.
Remi Recchia is a trans poet and essayist from Kalamazoo, Michigan. He is a Ph.D. candidate in English-Creative Writing at Oklahoma State University. He currently serves as an associate editor for the Cimarron Review. A four-time Pushcart Prize nominee, Remi’s work has appeared or will soon appear in World Literature Today, Best New Poets 2021, Columbia Online Journal, Harpur Palate, and Juked, among others. He holds an MFA in poetry from Bowling Green State University. Remi is the author of Quicksand/Stargazing (Cooper Dillon Books, 2021); his chapbook, Sober, is forthcoming with Red Bird Chapbooks.
