When is the comet coming. . .?


Once I saw a field of sleeping horses.
I thought they were all dead.
My heart jumped into my mouth.
I spat it out into the dirt.
Are the pale lights lit or going out?
Once I wanted to become a thin line.
A quick blow to the head kills the deer in my dream.
It’s good to be happy for a little while.
I put a sandwich and apple into a plastic bag.
Outside, an oak.
The first time I loved you, I loved poorly.
You’re plucking your eyebrows.
I know I’ve said terrible things.
I foster a wild defense.
Too many rivers pushing their beds into the earth.
I’m inside the shell of a mussel.
I lick my scabs like a bear.
Once I kept the iron on.
On purpose.
So you would turn it off.
And remind me to turn it off.
A moth dies, legs missing, between planks of wood.
Tell me what you most want to tell me.
Once I threw up all in your bathroom.
The first time I met you I felt sort of exposed.
I showed you a book I thought evil.
In my hand stale bread.
So, do you want to have dinner?
I’ll give you half.
We live through the winter.
Incomprehensible signs in the air.
A heron straddling a muddy pond.
You really don’t like it when I’m too polite.
So I find a way to be mean without anyone noticing.
I’m overjoyed and want to MARRY you.
There’s an ant in the corner of my bedroom.
It has the shape of something stuck in the eye.
I’m not going anywhere.
You can have my lips and eyes and beak.
Thousands of pink jellyfish.
My toes and tail.
And I can’t stop it anymore.
We have a very serious and beautiful life.

Rushing Pittman is a transgender man from Alabama. His writing has appeared in jubilat, The Boiler, BOOTH, Hayden’s Ferry Review and other various journals. He is the author of the chapbooks Mad Dances for Mad Kings (Factory Hollow Press, 2015) and There Is One Crow That Will Not Stop Cawing (Another New Calligraphy, 2016). He earned his MFA in poetry from the University of Massachusetts Amherst. He is an editor for Biscuit Hill, an online poetry journal.