Delilah McCrea
Every Mirror A Haunted House
this is not a poem
about being trans
it’s a poem about seeing God
in one’s own flesh
and how terrifying
that truly is
in every word an echo in every echo a word
imagine something you can’t imagine
imagine you can’t imagine something
sometimes when i have trouble breathing i tell myself a scary story to induce panicked gasps of air
sometimes when i’m scared i’ll hold my breath until it goes away
i never feel alone
is that what it means to be haunted
imsosorryimsosorryimsosorryimsosorryimsosorryimsosorryimsosorryimsosorry
when i look into mirrors
i never know what i’m seeing
when mirrors look into me
i feel unseen
this is a poem
about being trans
it’s a poem about seeing God
in one’s own flesh
and how terrifying
that truly is
re(ge)ndered
I make myself
die///
jest///
able///
so you*
*who is you (in this poem)?
can more easily swallow me
would (n’t) want you to choke
me
down
would (n’t) want you to think
critically about anything that you don’t understand
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
I am a womanb ys
e b r
b ys d b ys
bec e e
y u
e t
a g rl
d y u’ll ever be
Ode to Trannies
We are the holiest creatures
If you ask me to elaborate on this
I will say
No
will say
Fix your hearts or die
There is a tiny god in my hands
who speaks in reverse
I cannot hear the words
but they are devastating and beautiful
We are the holiest creatures
You don’t get an explanation
Were you there
when we laid the foundations of the earth?
Who fathers the drops of dew?
From whose womb comes the ice?
Ee-ahd ro straw hro-ee scif
Poem In Which I Don’t Mention the Body
It’s on fire.
It’s lying in the middle of the floor
at a party and it’s on fire.
Is it literally on fire
or is it unbearably warm?
Yes.
When touched
it does not recoil
nor reach out longingly
for it is not a body.
The non-body,
the emptiness,
is not bleeding
at the moment.
It does not
run away from itself
at every reminder
of childhood.
It cannot run,
for it does not have any
running apparatus
because it is not a body.
It is neither
hungry nor
sated.
It is empty.
The body
is not in this poem,
it’s buried somewhere
southwest of Tucson.
Sometimes,
you can still feel it.
God is a cunt
and I’m crawling out of him
God the mother
fucker.
God the bruised.
God the thirsty.
God the holiest hole
is the one in the back,
the one every
body has.
What I’m saying is
God is inside all of us.
What I’m saying is
God is inside all of us.
What I’m saying
is God
is a faggot,
and so am I.
You might call this poem
blasphemy, but believe me
no greater praise could
drip from my lips.
Drip from my lips
like God’s seed
when I sucked
her dick in the bar bathroom
the first night we met.
Before we did anything
we both made sure
the other was sober
because God values consent
and so do I.
God, she tasted
like God,
tasted like ambrosia,
tasted like
cunt.
Delilah McCrea is a trans-anarchist poet. She loves the NBA and knows the lyrics to every Saintseneca song. Her work can be found in Vagabond City, Gordon Square Review, Petrichor, Night Coffee Lit, Hobart After Dark and her website https://dtmccrea.wordpress.com/