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
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
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
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.