nat raum
self portrait as a food blogger
recipe: butter and toast and jam
serves: two, if your appetite is anything like mine.
i woke up picking at mosquito bites
on my calves, left by pests undeterred
by citronella or tobacco smoke because
i am the standing water
in which they breed.
i haven’t been to the park since i’ve been
back, instead raising blinds and peeking
through walnut tree limbs, nearly immune
to sirens and church bells that kept me
up all night last time i lived here.
i am the shoeshine on daguerre’s
paris street, surrounded by light trails
of houseflies circling a sweaty cerveza like
they would stray tuxedo cats dead on the highway,
housemates coming and going,
the sun’s path over the roof to meet me back
in my bed each evening through
westward-facing windows.
the passage of time is measured
in the disappearing wax of fresh linen
candles on charcoal-stained countertops
and punctuated by the growling
of my stomach.
ingredients: a copious amount of the communal stick of butter sitting on the counter, two slices of store-brand italian bread, blueberry preserves in a whimsical glass jar that costs way too much money but looks nice in photos
preparation: place one piece of bread in each of the toaster’s slats. set desired temperature and depress lever. stare out the window over the back fence for so long you forget you have something in the toaster. shriek and feel anxious for 5-8 minutes when it pops up. spread butter and blueberry preserves liberally over the toast with a small cheese knife.
author’s note: be sure to enjoy promptly and avoid staring into space for long periods of time while eating, perhaps wondering if the preservation of the warm body that’s standing in this phantom of a kitchen right now is really all you’ve accomplished since you moved out five years ago.
episodic memory
after “assumptions” by richard hugo
i am the most loathsome weight
to shoulder. i am the calamity responsible
for ruins, a catastrophe by comparison
to how i’ve broken down, how termites hollow
out wooden foundations behind sheetrock
and subfloor (only discovered once misplaced
steps pull me through the kitchen floor).
i was made like this. it is prophecy.
god said fuck nat raum in particular.
i am bound in my mother’s arms in a private
waiting room, eyes boring into ceiling tiles
as the lord abides the crack in my grandfather’s
voice telling us to call saint mary’s church. i couldn’t
hope to forget every floor’s fluorescent lights, flickering
like trick candles for a vigil, nor every snag in carpet and
crack in linoleum that trips me on my way to the elevator.
each night i will close my eyes
and float in this chasm within myself
until i wake. if not, i come to
after visions of car crashes, shipwrecks,
pulling away from embraces to find lovers
past superseding lovers present. eventually
there will be twenty-four or even twelve or six
or two hours i remember every minute of. until then
stasis covers my eyes and whispers:
guess what? still here.
nat raum (b. 1996) is a queer disabled artist and writer from baltimore, md. they are the editor-in-chief of fifth wheel press, a queer literature and art space. nat is an avid fan of ambient music, the witcher 3: wild hunt, noise-cancelling headphones, and bisexual lighting, preferably all at once. find them online: natraum.com/links.