on union-cold cigarettes & whatever i want

Poetry, Isabella R. Simões

on union-cold cigarettes

i smoke the tail end of a cigarette 

and feel nicotine rush to the front of my head

for the first time, an inchworm 

circling the rim of a glass jar, not knowing

it’s only a rim. find my gold curved

embroidery needle right where i left it:

in the center of a paint-stained table. place it

in my left chest pocket and walk around

with it all day three layers of stitching 

from my skin. wonder when the buzz will wear off

and how much i’ll itch to spend eleven bucks

on american spirits like an asshole,

like the union guys who i think are massive assholes,

probably not smoking american spirits. 

i find out the reason why you separate embroidery floss

into its smaller threads is so you don’t end up

with a lop-sided thick mess of thread

in a not-quite-circle, so you can lessen the gaps

in between your weaves. restless, i didn’t

separate the strands. got too excited to thicken the loose ends

into one wet mass through my lips. 

come to think of it, those fuckers

never offered me a cigarette. the girl who got one

went back to work the next day. bummer. 

if we held the line longer, we could’ve bummed winstons.

could've watched the lines around our mouth deepen

with every drag. could've watched white hair

grow from our cheeks.

---

whatever i want

i tell professor overstreet that i can't study what i want

 because i don't know enough yet.

i’m scared to tell my parents

how i’m changing my body. on my birthday 

my mom yells in pain at me,

clutching her stomach. until 11 am hits.

until kanye performs “jesus walks” on regis and kelly.

without missing a beat, overstreet tells me

“well, i think you can do whatever you want.”

when i rub the gel into my arms

it feels like it's doing something. makes my hand

all tacky. smells like alcohol and burns

the hairs in my nostrils. my dad's nostril hairs grow so long 

he had to buy a little razor for them. 

his face is hard and he always smiles the same way. a silly smoulder.

when my brothers walk by him they smack their palms

against his bald head. my mom sticks her fingers

in my dimples. you busted my vagina

and look like him anyway. 

i check out all the degrees on her walls. her books.

PhD. black feminist praxis. statistics. i’m looking for a book on promise.

really? whatever i want?

---

Isabella R. Simões, or Izzy, is a butch poet from New Jersey. They are currently studying psychology, English, and Creative Writing in Worcester, Massachusetts. Their work appears in Coin Operated Press and is forthcoming in Sinister Wisdom and RFD Magazine. When they’re not in school, you can find them looking at birds through open windows with Winston, their beloved cat. Instagram: @irs.poetry