A POEM by SILAS DENVER MELVIN

the clown takes off his face

the clown wipes off half his face & is surprised

to find, he is still himself

underneath that neat napkin of white powder

& obsidian mouth. he is still the body he is & will be,

the body he will take to bed & try to retire.

the clown takes a rag to both eyes,

undoes the black triangles,

the black lip like a sash of silk,

& blinking back at him is that same transsexual,

that failed cowboy, that poet,

that shy child that grew into a man

who twists his face from intimacy

as though it were a hot brand going straight for the heart.

it takes several washings—a storm cloud of ruined paper towels

spilling a beautiful charcoal stain down the porcelain shoulder

of the bathroom sink—& then the clown is gone,

leaves the not-clown scouring his dark sideburns

for any kiss of white he might have missed.

it is just him: his rascal heart, his outrageous fears,

his plain, plain everything.

oh, it is just him.


silas denver melvin (he/him) is a transsexual poet from New Hampshire and the author of "Grit" (2020). He has been published with WACK, SCAB, Toyon Lit, Doghouse Press, and others. silas was a guest editor for Beaver Magazine in December 2023. He can be found on Twitter + Tumblr @sweatermuppet. 

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FOUR POEMS by EM SETZER

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A STORY by DAVID COOK