when i paint my lips they always
get ideas & become moths.
blue & wing-beating.
i have to spend the night chasing them
through the streets of a mother city.
when i tell you "i miss the mountain"
i mean i miss the threat of bears
& watching the raccoons try on lipstick
in the trash can sanctuary.
i held a seance for trees once
& all they could talk about was
their desire to grow leaves of
impossible colors like indigo
& teal. i think unnatural gets
a bad rap. there's no fun in blooming
only when you are full. i come from
a long line of people who have tattooed
skipped stones into our hands.
the planet left footprints once
& now we don't even look for them.
the only trouble is that i always
draw on my lips too large. it isn't because
i'm looking for volume it's because
my hands are shaky. broken trails.
the deer path into the lemon village.
stone thrown into water. my ripple talking.
circling the walnut. a stained pair
of giant searchlights.
someone will find me in between
the sidewalk cracks. i will be dazzling
& they will ask me where
i got a mouth like this. i won't even
be able to speak. gesturing around me
to all the winged insects, maybe they will
understand that my lips are all around us.

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Robin Gow (it/fae/he & él y elle) is a Lambda Award-winning trans poet, witch, and educator from rural Pennsylvania. He is the author of several poetry collections, as well as YA and middle-grade books including Dear Mothman, A Million Quiet Revolutions, Lanternfly August, and more. Gow's poetry has recently been published in POETRY, Southampton Review, and New Delta Review. More at: robingow.com.

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