Haley Bossé
When the Time Comes to Split the Gym
When the time comes to split the gym, brachiosauruses
by the bleachers and gymnosperms at the punch bowl
I creep to claim the broom closet
bring just a flashlight and an alibi
break past particle board protective backing
and enter the lungs of the school.
Here, I’m not the only insect breathing in bacteria
and breathing out whole communities.
I’ve seen kingdoms froth forth and fall in the space
between the spaces between the locker rooms.
I’ve watched the tired clock’s tick urgent
between the palms of leads and fronds and felt
the buzzing of the backboard pontificating
on the shortness of our tiny lives
the way our shoes were sized
to help us find the closest cling
to fit, how we were never meant to wear them
til their fraying tags broke punch lines
in our heels, our bodies dripping red
and sweet and spiked onto the linoleum.
A Study of (Trans) Crypsis
1. Camouflage
In the era of rain, our only color was graphite
with pebble, fossil, lead present in the fabric.
When I woke, I searched the piles
for the closest feel to dry and plastered it
still heaving, to my body. In the rain
we learned a new degree of separation
meaning there was none, just our skin
just the rivers of icy water moving down
through sticky strands of hair and over
the chilled and porous landscape
of our organs, only breathing in the water
and out, a gill-less form of respiration.
2. Nocturnality
When the boy comes
through the window
you think, here he is to kill me
or hold me to the night. Either
is preferable to the blue-aired silence
that fills with growing hands
the pursing of his mouth
as he says, “I almost got caught
this time” and slides his body between
the sheaves of fabric that hold you
shivering to this world.
You do not sleep with him but
that’s no change, only
a reprieve from knowing
something’s wrong. When he chokes?
you, you spill gratitude and hope
he’ll wait to let the air come rushing back
that the dark will burrow deeper
and claim you as its creature.
3. Mimicry
The pleated skirt falls
just below the crease
that borders your thighs
and you think
gratitude, know God
would forgive you for this slight
of hand, aposematism
that tells your peers
that you are easy
and nothing else
that their lazy curiosity
ought to land
on something softer
and more likely to run
so when you turn
your snake-like eye upon them
in performance, they’ll think
“Ah, she’s just a caterpillar,” or
“Ah, she’s just a snake,” but always
“She.” She, she, she, rattling along the floor.
4. Subterraneous Lifestyle
In the basement of the church, the boy tries
crying as they lift their arms toward
the rafters, hands open to receive something
anything they are told that they deserve.
Later, they will argue with the man who pours
the punch —it’s red bull spiked but don’t tell—
about the security system for the kingdom
of heaven and still they will not be expunged
from the first page of the Bible on the shelf
by the door, their skeleton locked essentially
in place, despite its growing looseness
the pockets of air expanding as layers of skin
and what was once their self pull
painfully apart. For now, when the man
asks, “Still loving Jesus?” with a hand
on their vibrating clavicle, the boy is able to say
yes and tug their skirt back into place
is able to hide in this kingdom of animals
dressed to the teeth and hiding their claws.
the toad / in the hamper
After checking the temperature of the bathtub
It fills inexplicably with seed;
The shape of a body disperses
On its translucent surface.
Lesser men ask how I burn
In a bath of my own making.
I guess when you have only one tired dude
Rattling inside you, you grow accustomed
To predicting how the pain will spread throughout your body.
I’m not sure how bad it is to keep these edifices
Brightening in the water, but I think I might be moving
Toward knowing when the searing of my skin
Denotes a kindness
And when the signal means escape.
Title borrowed from the body
of “Between Two Suns”
by Tara Labovich
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