sage green summer
summer, so far, has been unseasonably warm. you exist
mostly in goosebumps and times new roman font,
which is to say writing feels like an air conditioned room.
already, i have exhausted melodrama in a series of <3’s,
expounded the body into various metaphors. today, i’m
dousing stale air in sage green vanilla sugar moon dust.
i swallow enough queer to drown at pride in a sea of rainbow
and rebrand shoegaze as shoe-gays. see asap rocky: i love
bad b*tches, i got a f*ckin problem. i rabbit-crouch and crack
pistachio shells, lob them gently at the heads of gentrifying
culture vultures and unsuspecting tourists. the city teems
with slightly-too-much life, including but not limited to
millions of unidentifiable microorganisms on every single
subway pole, glowing a sickly green hue. reminiscent of
the tub of pistachio gelato gone rotten in the back of your
freezer, behind five types of veggie burgers and the ice
you pressed to my forehead when i toppled from the ferris
wheel, fought the underpaid attendant over a refund. i am
here now to say it wasn’t your fault. i tried to kiss the sky
and it twisted away into a bruised sunset. nothing but tears,
or water-color perspiration, all blackblue-purplepink.
kyrah gomes (she/her) is a queer poet and fresh fruit aficionado from nyc, currently living in tampa, fl. her poems have appeared in LEVITATE, Journal of Erato, The B’K, warning lines mag, and other publications. her debut poetry collection, sunlight for breakfast, is available from bottlecap press. you can send her comments, hate mail, or playlists on twitter @reveri3s, or instagram @kyrah.isabel.