I am not so much in love with a person as I am
an act of vengeance.
A man I knew played piano. I have
a thing for military boys and musicians.
I would like one more cup of coffee before I hit
the road – Mr. Dylan convinced me. This is revenge:
warming hands on smooth ceramic mugs
before I depart, hair getting staticky in the thick air
between the congealing storm and the stars.
When I leave the apartment, it will be with a gun
the color of horses’ flanks. I am drinking
Folger’s coffee on the hood of a car with
my wings spread behind me on red
chrome, cascading like a cassette
tape’s gutted film. I am in love.
I will put a bullet in the base of his skull.
The Most Sacred Heart of Jesus
Heap of wrecked transsexual chests, chilled
now there’s no more blood, only the icy
touch of grace. “Redeemed. No
longer beasts — why would
you want to be animals?” To lay
in the tall grasses as the scales
and the pelts do, stinking and
dreaming under the wild wind.
Apollo (ze/hir) is a 20-year-old who writes poetry for people who didn’t think they’d make it this far and for kids who don’t think they’re gonna make it at all. The recipient of the 2021 Academy of American Poets Prize and three-time winner of the National YoungArts competition, Apollo’s work appears in journals including Poets.org, Vagabond City, and the Trans Masc Diaries, and under a dead name in journals including The Rumpus, Lunch Ticket, and Yes Poetry. Pay hir a visit at apollopoet.wordpress.com, or on Instagram @apollo.chastain