Tag: youth

my body as youth by john compton

~ ONE ART ~ 1 Comment

my body as youth

my hair is thinning. my eyes depend
on lenses. my noise is feeble.
my ears no longer understand sound.
my lips have shriveled, small & weak.
my mouth is still scared
to eat. my neck has almost given up
its strength. my shoulders lug around dead weight.
my elbows burn like a gas stove.
my wrists tunnel into my hands. my fingers are cracked
at each bend. my heart
is wrapped in onion. my lungs have been beaten
beyond repair. my stomach is no more a victim
than the tongue itself. my liver has always been
a failure. my kidneys compete like strangers.
my intestines are knotted with agony.
my bladder has no hold, lets it all go.
my colon stores without payment.
my penis is slack. my ass sags.
my hips are on the verge of displacement.
my thighs still contain proof of stretched skin.
my knees are crippled as are my ankles.
my feet are islands sinking. my toes are their navigator.

*

john compton (he/him) is a gay poet who lives with his husband josh and their dogs and cats. his latest book: my husband holds my hand because i may drift away & be lost forever in the vortex of a crowded store (Flowersong Press; dec 2024) and latest chapbook: melancholy arcadia (Harbor Editions; april 2024).

To the roommates of my youth by Kaitlyn Newbery

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To the roommates of my youth

I miss you most when I see a picture
of you in a dress I don’t recognize.
In a necklace your husband probably gave you
but I’ve never seen.

We used to assemble our outfits
from the collective closet—her
dress, my scarf, your bracelet—
we’d all give pieces to each other
before entering the world.
Somewhere in my closet, I still
have that sweater you wore to an interview.
The shoes from your second date.

I have a few grey hairs now, do you?
My hands have begun to look like my mother’s
did when I was a girl. Slightly softer. Slightly looser.
Children changed my body
              (and probably yours too).
Children changed my closet
              (and probably yours too).

But I see your picture and I’m sad
for a dress I’ve never felt and proud
of the outfit you’ve assembled
on your own.

*

Kaitlyn Newbery is an adjunct English professor at University of the Cumberlands. She enjoys exploring questions about her faith through metaphors and storytelling. Her works have recently been published by Amethyst Review, Calla Press, Heart of Flesh Literary Journal, Sunlight Press, and forthcoming in Thimble Magazine.