Joe Nasta: I Will Never Be Human Again

Joe Nasta: I Will Never Be Human Again
Photo: Joanna C. Valente

Photo: Joanna C. Valente

Anthem 

This morning, the light streaming through the window felt queer
on my face.  Or having these cheeks and nose and eyes did.
Any face, or this one.  Mine.  The breeze on my toes sticking
out from the blanket, and the heat of my legs under the wool.
Being in bed and inside of a body.  Sweat stuck to the skin
of my hips, my inner thighs, my scrotum: this all mine and me
a body rising from unconsciousness as if that were natural.
The sound of chirping birds was a song I did not write,
but I listened. I woke up when the song hit me like light.
The bird beaks pricked my skin.

This morning, the light was queer when it hit me.
I rose and left my body.  I flew to the birds.


agender

 

                                                The terrace opened wide.

                                    They were no longer just a bird

                                    behind the clouds.  Mid-afternoon

                                    they landed in this shape.

 

                        No time for flying.  Their wings glinted

                                    then dulled.  Feathers filled the air.

                        Their whistling song,                          molt.

                        Their talons and fangs.

 

            More than just black feathers

                        their bones began to shift,

            but when they landed in this shape

            they did not become a man.

 

Glinting, then dull feathers.  The air

is more of a body than any shape

            talons              fangs

legs                  face.

 

            Bones shift and           melt

                                    skin scales.

            They did not become a man.

            A coiled snake.

 

                        More   a body             any shape,

                        the smoggy morning and the dead of night.

                        Legs and face could never hold them.

                        They folded as they fell,         transmogrify.

 

                                    Melt their                    skin, scaled.

                                                They glinted               dulled

                                                                        became

                                    the many balconies below the sun.

 

 

(the gargoyle at the Hotel Sorrento finally closes its eyes) 

 

I’m lately blurring all these sunny afternoons:

            my gurgling sounds the same as drying up.

                        A lost seagull paces my turrets,

 

                                    flaps her wings out of context,

                        flies away.       In the garden, the tables

                        are marble, sparkling, round

 

                        and the people who visit

                        toast flutes of rosé.                  Meanwhile,

                        my drink settles into layers

 

                        purple then brown, but

                        I spit it all out red:                  my mouth

                        is a gutter of rain and blood.

 

                        The boy who returned every spring,

                        his fleshy hand waving,          I remember.

                                    He is old now, or dead.  Gone.

 

                        I used to be like him, but        I wished

                        for too much.  I thought I’d be regal

                        and stoic.  Now I know

 

                        these chipped wings are useless.

            The stones of my courtyard only age.

I will never be human again.


These poems originally appeared in our ebook The Queer Body.  


Joe Nasta is a queer writer and mariner who splits his time between Seattle, New York, and the ocean. Joe has studied with Brooklyn Poets, Winter Tangerine, and Corporeal Writing. Their work has been featured by Brooklyn Poets The Bridge, Running Wild Press, and Yes Poetry. They edit a zine of unconventional art and writing from the PNW and beyond at stonepacificzine.com and can be found on Instagram and Twitter @roflcoptermcgee.