Jesse Rice-Evans (she/her/hers) is a queer Southern poet based in NYC. Read her work in Heavy Feather Review, Monstering, tenderness yea, and in the chapbooks The Rotting Kind (Ghost City Press) and Soft Switch (Damaged Goods Press). 

2 poems by Jesse Rice-Evans

Sanctuary

after Grey’s Anatomy Season 6 Episode 23

 

Somewhere is safe

despite everything

you stay clean and yanked

taut, blood throbbing through

like it's nothing, like I

tripped over my best friend’s

body

 

It's a good day

when east is a jumble

of slender sanctuary

 

a chain unfastened

like a boa, live or feathered.

 

You dim hole you cheek

bones opalescent over concrete,

how full I am of fresh blood,

stability in its new form

 

 

Acne

 

There it was: the ability to say I was a thing and to be something different

entirely: To suspect myself of accruing personality disorders: one after

another, a tumbleweed of SSRIs, SNRIs, benzos, anti-convulsants, mood

stabilizers, magnesium, prescriptions, the skins I shed a skin, a sheet I let

myself fold, fist $20s and balm carmex, a hypothermic need from my

core, the cartilages lining my sternum like a lacefront, turning things

around for myself so buying strappy bras in plus sizes, believing that my

skin will never quit flaming, sharp beaks clambering just beneath follicle.

Scoop me or whatever, chatterbox questioning button-down linen over

tight jeans, linoleum plastic smell seeping between slowing down, waiting

til we’re ready. My tissue is softer than the spell I cast, the power of doing

my pastel nails, hoping to run into you, to wow, something gigantic