There's a woman looping longhand on this train & I think, by Myles Taylor
she must be a poet. & I glance outside at the students saddle seated on the stone tops
and I think they must be poets, every one,
just by the look on their fresh faces at the well-placed street trees
& I look at the Boston trees and they are poets, just here to dress the world up, right, they tell us,
but actually creating our oxygen?
Too on the nose. The grey-haired lady on the stationary bike absolutely going at it is a poet,
no contest. I am definitely a poet at this gym because I have no idea what I'm doing right now.
& hark! Another goddamn poet! The trainer
speaking softly at the woman in the corner.
Every tenderness is a poet, as every tender moment, I think, could be a poem,
& I'm leaving walking home, & the whole train line is a poet,
& my one bum knee & my one peeling knuckle,
& this one fat robin in fucking February is a poet guaranteed,
& I think my favorite poet is when my cat curls his two paws inward like a lil bowtie,
& my testosterone syringe is a poet
& the espresso machine at my dumb job is a poet
& whoever's in the dish pit is a poet,
a poet is anything I could ask, do you ever feel
a hole in your chest, & every time you think about it,
it rips open a little more? You ever try to fill it
with dopamine & nutrients & you are so close
to stuffing it with all the decisions you've said
you'd never make but the poets! all the poets!
Somehow they're still going, & feeling the parameters
of that hole, & do you ever realize
it opened before you thought about it, you just
correlate causation, & it could be opening
further any day you are not looking at it,
Schrodinger's hole, at any size at all if you go on
about your day but oh, my poets! my poets!
Pulling it closed with two hands, I love you.
This ugly world & this uglier city. This beautiful city
& my ugly brains. You make it stop, sometimes.
I'm trying not to look but I think you do.
and I think they must be poets, every one,
just by the look on their fresh faces at the well-placed street trees
& I look at the Boston trees and they are poets, just here to dress the world up, right, they tell us,
but actually creating our oxygen?
Too on the nose. The grey-haired lady on the stationary bike absolutely going at it is a poet,
no contest. I am definitely a poet at this gym because I have no idea what I'm doing right now.
& hark! Another goddamn poet! The trainer
speaking softly at the woman in the corner.
Every tenderness is a poet, as every tender moment, I think, could be a poem,
& I'm leaving walking home, & the whole train line is a poet,
& my one bum knee & my one peeling knuckle,
& this one fat robin in fucking February is a poet guaranteed,
& I think my favorite poet is when my cat curls his two paws inward like a lil bowtie,
& my testosterone syringe is a poet
& the espresso machine at my dumb job is a poet
& whoever's in the dish pit is a poet,
a poet is anything I could ask, do you ever feel
a hole in your chest, & every time you think about it,
it rips open a little more? You ever try to fill it
with dopamine & nutrients & you are so close
to stuffing it with all the decisions you've said
you'd never make but the poets! all the poets!
Somehow they're still going, & feeling the parameters
of that hole, & do you ever realize
it opened before you thought about it, you just
correlate causation, & it could be opening
further any day you are not looking at it,
Schrodinger's hole, at any size at all if you go on
about your day but oh, my poets! my poets!
Pulling it closed with two hands, I love you.
This ugly world & this uglier city. This beautiful city
& my ugly brains. You make it stop, sometimes.
I'm trying not to look but I think you do.
Myles Taylor (they/them) is a transmasculine poet, organizer, award-winning poetry slam competitor, barista, Emerson College alum, Capricorn-Aquarius cusp, and glitter enthusiast. They run Moonlighting: A Queer Open Mic and host at the Boston Poetry Slam. Their work can be found in The Shallow Ends, Academy of American Poets, Washington Square Review, Underblong, Crab Fat Magazine, Slamfind, and others.
Kelly Emmrich is an illustrator and animator living and working in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Her work has appeared in the magazines Moonhood Magazine, Dream Noir, and Meat for Tea. She studied creative writing and animation at the University of Mary Washington. She is currently working as a beer label designer for a microbrewery in Afton, Virginia and also as a freelance animator and illustrator.