Alex Carrigan

Glass Earrings

When I was five years old, I asked
my mother if I could buy an earring
at a yard sale. My ears weren’t pierced then,
and they still aren’t twenty-five years on.
Looking back, I’m glad that was the reason
she said no, as well as that it wouldn’t
have complimented my features.

If I see a woman standing
in my mirror, is she supposed to be me?
I’ve never seen her before,
her features are different from
the last woman to appear in my mirror.

I tilt my head to try and see
how her neck bends,
if the flick of her hair
exposes the mole on the side.

I lift my shirt and shimmy.
Her body doesn’t shake back,
but remains still in place.
I could rest a dinner set on
her body. If she did the same
to me, we’d be pricking our
fingers trying to pick up the broken china off the floor.

Her ears are pierced, with much more tasteful
earrings than the doorknockers
I tried to buy.
When I look at her,
I’m glad some version of me was able to
walk away from that yard sale
assured in herself.

After Dani Putney

Affirmation

I often wonder what skin
I’ll have to slip myself into
to be considered desirable.

I wonder if someone wants me skinnier,
with less stretch marks across his hips
or with thighs that don’t threaten to
spark when they rub together
when walking through the city.

I wonder if someone wants me with shorter hair,
afraid to get lost in the tangle of
my Irish-Italian curls, who has to cover
their hands with Freddy Krueger gloves if
they want to stroke my head
and get through the bramble.

I wonder if someone wants me with brighter eyes,
a straighter nose, missing
the five moles around my neck
and the one hidden under my tits.

I wonder if anyone has reached for
the zipper that curves with my
scoliosis-afflicted spine
and tried to pull it down when
I walked past them in the metro station.

If they did, I hope they at least
caressed it gently,
the way they would if they tried to
pick the right peach from the fruit stand.

Maybe I felt their touch that one time,
and I wonder if I could
get them to touch me again.

After Jubi Arriola-Headley

Alex Carrigan (he/him; @carriganak) is an editor, poet, and critic from Virginia. He is the author of "May All Our Pain Be Champagne: A Collection of Real Housewives Twitter Poetry" (Alien Buddha Press, 2022). He has had fiction, poetry, and literary reviews published in Quail Bell Magazine, Lambda Literary Review, Empty Mirror, Gertrude Press, Quarterly West, Sage Cigarettes (Best of the Net Nominee, 2023), 'Stories About Penises' (Guts Publishing, 2019), 'Closet Cases: Queers on What We Wear' (Et Alia Press, 2020), and more. He is also the co-editor of 'Please Welcome to the Stage...: A Drag Literary Anthology' with House of Lobsters Literary. For more, visit https://carriganak.wordpress.com/.