"Sometimes I'm" and "Aria"

Sometimes I’m—I feel / like a man in a red T-shirt / living in the body of a babe.

Sometimes I'm

1.
Sometimes I’m—I feel
like a man in a red T-shirt
living in the body of a babe.

When was the first time we ever
had a good laugh together?

The feeling of our bare asses
on the new blue couch. No—the sigh
of our single pillow when we were
too broke to keep our heads apart.

2.
Sometimes I’m not
breasts
I’m something
better.

Haven’t decided
what yet.
But if I’m
it’s a woman’s.

She says I’m
like a pillow princess
but for everything.
I’m not!

I’m like myself only
I’m in the difference

When she changes her mind
I’m selling Asian pears
slicing them up all the juices
making a little pool in my palms.

I’m exhausted I’m
dripping I’m
euphoric

I’m too large
to be held.
I’m the movement
being born into.

3.
Do I butter?
Let’s get up and dance!

Yes is I enough to be!
Yes is I have no more reasons not to.

I leave my apartment
I go into women
I’m dancing in the women
I always have the right shoes.

I’m up to my neck in I'm
and I’m beautifully.




Aria

Worm. Two grandpa worms who are lovers. Their slow, honeyed
appetite. Cheap scotch. The way you talk to yourself soaring and
yellow as you come up the stairs and I know it’s you. You
surprising me with the cheap scotch in your bag. Your little bag
tossed on a chair, clinking. One bag for each of us. The sunlit
orchard and your insistence on biting into every kind of apple,
leaving a trail of them as you go. The sun gazing right at you. You
winking back, with both eyes. You telling me you don’t bite, and
then biting. Being bitten. White sandflesh that soon blushes
brown. Your mouth’s impossible stretch as if waking from a great
sleep. The first note, wavering. The operas of Mozart and also
Bizet. The sound ripening in the crown. Startling round luminous
shivers. One more song. Another breath. The tongue a loosened
root. Hair shaken free from the branches like moon curtains. The
dress you’ll be buried in, the coat I won’t grow into. The company
of trees. The trees learning our voices, already wind. The
sensation of wind. Your breath on me in the morning, uncurling
me awake.

About the author

Bridget Huh is a queer Korean poet based in Tkaronto (Toronto). She is completing her undergraduate studies at Concordia University.