by David Eileen

throws her laugh down the stairs, sends a shimmy into her body

like two hands use aluminum sheets to make thunder, keeps teeth

that bust grapes on my hips, dances as a column of fire writing figures

on sand dunes at night, smooths herself over sheets like water benefits a creek but light

threads through her better, thumbs an encyclopedia of callouses that do not obscure

her tenderness, built a home in this poorly decorated world & called it a parade & now

she leads from the front, lilies at her throat, waving, waving

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David Eileen lives in the mountains of Virginia. Their writing has appeared in The Atlantic, Diagram, Painted Bride Quarterly, and Best of the Net. Their work and letters are concerned with interconnectedness, lineage, queer resilience, labor rights, solidarity, and care for our planet. They are a big fan of talking to your neighbors; they would love to talk to you. See more at david-eileen.com.

by David Eileen