body goes home, part two
by Nic Campeotto
to where i cut your hair, in the sun behind my house, chair legs rocking in the rhythm of the strands falling onto my hand, your shoulders, the back of your neck
to where i took your hand on my rough black carpet
to where i wrapped your hair in tinfoil on my bathroom floor
to the room in my memory in which everything is red
to where i thought of running my hand down the front of your shirt
to the place where we first recognized each other
to the snake around my arm
to where my wine glass fell, to where my body was pressed to yours and warm
to where i broke open a pomegranate in the dark
to where i never saw that book again
to where i learned to sleep next to your body
to where i spread myself out on the bed, barely dressed and quoting keats—
city, my savior—here where i regrew a body—in which i could
survive—in which i could learn real touch, a new warmth—
city, my safe, cold bed, in the morning with the wind off the lake— city,
my always-open window—
to where we woke early and covered ourselves in glitter, to where we washed ourselves clean in cold water
to where we drank peach moonshine, warm and marigold-orange and sweet, lips catching on the lid of the jar
to that sweet roll of my stomach, to where your eyes first warmed, to every place i found you again
to where i learned to pass, to not pass, to pass again
to where i learned to touch without fear: cold body, ambiguous body, reaching body—body re-gendered and de-gendered
to where i learned to line my eyes, to cut my own hair
to where i read milton by the lake
to where i stared into the sloped ceiling on hot afternoons and thought of evaporation
to where i walked home, barefoot and stoned
to where i knelt on the rocks and rubbed a drop of water into the quartz around my neck
to where we walked on early mornings through the caves
to where my shoes gaped open to let in the snow
to where, for years, i wore nothing but skirts
to where, drinking by the lake, we talked of stripping off and jumping in
to where my hips settled around yours, and yours, and yours
to the apartment where we left every window open in the summer, where i tried to grow violets and thyme by the kitchen window, where i left aventurine and jade on the sill
to where we celebrated on the back porch and talked of never leaving—
city, how did i learn to be a different body?
city, my cup full of seaglass—city where i learned to read my. own. hands—city where i named this body—city where i spoke. this body. —city where i became this body new—city where i wandered, lost, on superior avenue—city where i have gotten lost so many times—city where i pull off the turnpike on cold december nights— city where i kissed you, and kissed you, and kissed you—city where i felt the smell of nutmeg and orange peel and hot wax—
i wrote a new body on bay leaves and sealed them in a jar and buried it in the cuyahoga valley. on the drive home, i pulled over to collect fallen leaves, pieces of tire, loose slate, milkweed, beach pea, pink turtlehead, goldenrod, sweet white violet, harbinger-of-spring, clear quartz and celestite, flint and soft soil. i lay down in the snow and felt the cold.
i let myself fall open.
Author Bio
Nic Campeotto is a (gender)queer Southerner and aspiring shapeshifter currently living with their wife in Cleveland, Ohio. Their poetry and flash fiction have appeared in the journals Fiction Southeast and Cactus Heart, among others, and the anthologies Manticore from Sundress Publications and Furies from UK publisher For Books’ Sake. In 2018, their poetry was incorporated into the performance art piece “Haumapuhia Rising” by artist Lynn Lu. They can be found on social media (occasionally) under their name or @paperquake.
