Jack Henry is a queer writer based in Mojave, CA. recent work can be found in dissident voice, ink pantry, terror house, delicate friend, and others. in late winter 2022 GUTTERSNOB PRESS will release “Los Angeles,” a collection of poems based on the city. in 2021 PUNK HOSTAGE PRESS released, “driving w/crazy.” for more please go to jackhenry.wordpress.com

awake

in cool hours just before dawn
i sit in the quietness 
of my home

stare out the back window
at an immediate world
bathed in the waning
glow of a sleepy moon

the stars are concerned
with other things
now and feel no need
to let themselves be known

soon the rumble of a new sun
will stretch upon an eastern sky
and i will begin
another day
not unlike the day that just left me
and most likely
the same as
the day after today

degradation

i swim in an ebb tide flow of shame
every day
certain moments
after key events
or even
delicate thoughts

shame sits as my touchstone
from birth to now, 
until the day after forever

deep set in the sheltering shadows
i hide my truest form
quivering in fear of exposure
of change
of the damning sneers of those in control

my breath lays hot on the night air
as i roam empty streets 
of my dead-end world
looking for salvation
as sanctuary doors

remain locked

commonality

i will never look like her
or be
like her.
the way her dress flows,
clings,
the way her skin
 
glows.

the swell of her breasts
the curve of her hips,
i will never
walk like her,
move like her
in high heels
or flats
or barefoot.

i will never talk like her
or have lips that
move
sultry
full
kissing or smiling 
or anything
else.

the shape of her face
her eyes,
long thin neck,
delicate lines,
gentle cadence of
limb and loin.

i will never taste like her,
when my legs spread,
when a man takes his passion,
when i bend to his lust,
his need,
his desire,

but i will cry like her,
when i find myself
alone,
alienated,
misgendered,

replaced.