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Two Poems

Taylor Alyson Lewis

Divorced Eggs

When I think of a good meal, 

I do consider my mother first.

Her face over a popping skillet 

dipping white gold buttermilk

slivers of catfish in cornmeal.

Meanwhile my father, 

overhearing her joy somehow, 

bakes salmon and potatoes,

grills slabs of baby back ribs 

and roasts whole hens and fresh grouper 

he buys from his guy

at the market. He wraps the boiled 

white necks of thin turkeys in string, 

lowers them gently into 

green waters off the pier, a 

Texan baptism blessed by John himself.

The blue crabs are fat and stupid.

He uses his hands to break

their bodies in half for broth.

It was a beautiful childhood and 

I have no crosses.

My mother, dropping fish 

in roiling oil, turns towards me 

to say, “I killed every damn animal 

your daddy ever cooked. I tended 

every vegetable.” 

She burns all of our food 

on purpose. 

It turns rich and black in 

our mouths like chocolate.


I begin here beholden to Vermont,

the skin on my ribs and wrists thin as wind.

Sweet Vermont verdant and slow to wake won’t

you hold me where I was denied? Love-child

of Creation and Boundary. Return

to me each June deeper and fuller June.

No man may take smoke mountain from me nor

green no transphobe could deny me the breadth 

of my body draped alongside the fields 

as gargantuan as Goliath as

stupefying as a sunset caught in

the reflection of water on my face.


When I fled the violence of three letters,

I found myself in the clearing small-small. 

Taylor Alyson Lewis is a Black, trans poet originally from Atlanta. He was the recipient of the 2020 MVICW Queer Writer Fellowship in Prose and the 2017 Edith A. Hambie Poetry Prize sponsored by the Academy of American Poets. He has poems in Auburn Avenue and Voicemail Poems

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