by Ayden Massey
when the morning glories have unbowed their soft skulls,
may you rejoice in the child of things.
may you return to the warm radius amongst the high boughs
and pare your father’s ego with their sloughed hide.
you will no longer lap salt from your lids
because here the drying sun has already arrived.
the human in you will want
to travel your name back to your mother
country. Say it
and you will feel home
in the darkest parts of your throat.
say it again, and it will
build around the fawn of you,
as skin. the wind will lean into your body
like a wind chime, reminding you how the goodness of
your mother’s hands never left.
how when you begin to molt,
before blood is your speckled coat of fur.
Ayden Massey is a queer poet and indie filmmaker. They are a summa cum laude graduate of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill with a dual BA in English and Women’s Studies. Ayden has received varying academic accolades, visual awards, and literary publications, including features in Idiosyncrazy Magazine and The New York Times.
Hawaii Pacific Review 