Alix Perry
You Can Be Wrong
The sidewalks
here are
lined with
sewing needles,
three-inch
fence posts to keep
us on the
righteous path.
When lavender
flowers in the final
weeks of spring,
I pick a bundle
and rub
the sprigs
under my arms
and against my
gums. I have
lost all other
means to
feel clean.
A stranger
outside the library
is yelling
to no one, maybe
everyone,
good and bad
are not
the only things
you can be.
I retreat south
to avoid forming
an opinion.
The houses
get bigger
in the hills,
the grocery stores
smaller and fuller
of those meat
alternatives that
mimic bleeding.
I pass on food,
leaving me
just enough cash
to buy the
burnt out body
of a car and
three bald
tires from a
freelance mechanic
on 45th.
All of his
reviews are
five stars—
they say he’s
the only one
still selling
affordable parts.
No matter their
functionality is only
imaginary. I want
everything that
forces me
to believe.
I am still working
out what it is
I want
to believe.
From 3 to 4 am,
the transit center
always smells
of redwoods,
the scent waiting
for me to ride time
back around.
I see the stranger
just past
midnight,
there to
catch a bus, or
maybe just
a whiff of
the coast.
You can be good, or
you can be bad, or
you can be
patient, I tell her.
Or you can
be wrong, she says.
On the way
home, I take
the train tracks
instead of the
sidewalk, write
the names of
my own stations
on the web
of the rails.
here are
lined with
sewing needles,
three-inch
fence posts to keep
us on the
righteous path.
When lavender
flowers in the final
weeks of spring,
I pick a bundle
and rub
the sprigs
under my arms
and against my
gums. I have
lost all other
means to
feel clean.
A stranger
outside the library
is yelling
to no one, maybe
everyone,
good and bad
are not
the only things
you can be.
I retreat south
to avoid forming
an opinion.
The houses
get bigger
in the hills,
the grocery stores
smaller and fuller
of those meat
alternatives that
mimic bleeding.
I pass on food,
leaving me
just enough cash
to buy the
burnt out body
of a car and
three bald
tires from a
freelance mechanic
on 45th.
All of his
reviews are
five stars—
they say he’s
the only one
still selling
affordable parts.
No matter their
functionality is only
imaginary. I want
everything that
forces me
to believe.
I am still working
out what it is
I want
to believe.
From 3 to 4 am,
the transit center
always smells
of redwoods,
the scent waiting
for me to ride time
back around.
I see the stranger
just past
midnight,
there to
catch a bus, or
maybe just
a whiff of
the coast.
You can be good, or
you can be bad, or
you can be
patient, I tell her.
Or you can
be wrong, she says.
On the way
home, I take
the train tracks
instead of the
sidewalk, write
the names of
my own stations
on the web
of the rails.
Biography
|
Alix Perry is a trans writer living in Western Oregon. Their poetry has been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology and can be found in Rogue Agent, Maw Poetry, Defunkt Magazine and elsewhere. They are neck-deep in writing the fifth draft of their debut novel. More @_AlixPerry_ and at alixperrywriting.com.
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