during a biology class on how humans breathe
i forgot i don’t have my tonsils anymore
my neck unnaturally smooth under winter-dry
fingers, who thought it too easy to make their grip
just a little tighter, to let the mouth taste the rarity
of air with no feathers filtering the dirt, the crumbs
the bugs, the lost receipts from entering
my lungs
i let my friend touch my skin to know what the loneliness
of a throat with no bird trapped inside feels like,
her fingers brushing the trapeze of flesh where at night
i willed & willed for an Adam’s apple, for a whole orchard,
to sprout
Dee Steve is 25 years old and from Italy. They currently live in Dublin where they are pursuing a PhD in Creative Writing on Trans Poetics, Trans Ecologies, and the Apocalypse. Their poetry has been published on SCAN Lancaster.
More work by Robin Steve
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