Aeon Ginsberg (they/them) is an agender writer and performer from Baltimore City, MD and author of the chapbooks 'Until The Cows Come Home' (Elation Press, 2016) and 'Loathe/Love/Lathe' (Nostrovia! Press, 2017). Alain is a barista, a bartender, and a Taurus.
2 poems by Aeon Ginsberg
Self Portrait as Waluigi
I leave my body, and return to it the same, but different
each time it prisms back onto me.
Show me who I mirror, mirror.
That's the point, right? to be defined
by the person people reflect into you.
If you know me a frame, you can call me mirror.
If you walk through me name me door.
Refract me into what space you need me to fit
and I will stay there until I am moved again.
At times this body stays still and the world
shifts around me oil to water; blood to oil;
in a life I ran cross country; picture me
shorts and sweat and blotched skin.
Define me by the identities that make sense;
then I was young and assumed
how this all of me lives.
I ran with a group of myselves;
lets name a group of people your age a collection;
lets call an action an item; lets say
I was left and so I must be lost.
Running in a group is called a purpose
and so when I was left behind I became an effort.
It is no effort to figure out who I am
without knowing how I have lived;
without knowing how I have ended.
Ending defined by yelling.
Ending defined by shatter.
If my life is framed by whomever looks at it
what would I build if not a place where I can hide.
If a person is described by what they have
reflected into them,
what can I find in myself if I prism.
A life as bad skin.
A life as bad hair.
A life as square jaw, square shoulders,
boxes of bodies with no room in storage.
I was left to my own devices
so I ran eight miles on my own until
a man yelled me into light beams for his losing
of me. I stopped doing cross country
but I still run away from what hurts me most.
The track coach said the pole vaulters were suicidal,
which is true but not in the ways in which he joked.
A prism defined by what stays inside of it,
a hunger defined by what it needs to quell,
a wind emptied into the esophagus of me.
If someone wants to define me by what I refract,
then prism me into infrareds;
prison me out of this gender;
prism me into something framed by a horizon.
Something unreachable, somewhere where
the yells are named whispers
and the foot fall is followed by itself,
until the horizon becomes itself a comforter,
and the sun tucks the body into bed around it.
POEM IN WHICH I TRANSITION INTO WATER
& you’re everywhere to me / when I close my eyes /
it’s you I see / & when while that’s well and good
my body doesn’t yet sprawl horizon across itself yet /
doesn’t yet flow out from me in a way that holds itself /
but holds onto itself moreso than necessary / how hard /
it is to take a bath / when you are the bath / when I close
my eyes / I too see myself as I want / I am want to believe /
in the reality of my liquid self / how fluid I must be to fill /
the shape of containers placed around me