Voicemail II

By Alix Perry

Hey, it’s me. I’ve made some time to explain
what I meant before. The prophylactic hypotheses
are hard at work. The hamsters are sleeping
in the henhouse. Try not to be alarmed. Try
to keep your voice down even in your own
home. We all have our reasons. And I don’t
blame you. Not for your hamstrung promises
nor the way you used to look at me—like 
an electrical outlet painted over by some
careless confident landlord. But I am moreso
made of insurgent urgent ice cream cravings
and hailstones pretty on the lawn. I am not 
too proud. I am sometimes too earnest. 
After all, a poem is a train station raised in
a town with no tracks. If you build it, they
will come. If you build it, you do not understand
the economy. But I’ve heard how many of us
dream of a leaving that doesn’t require a gone.
It’s impulse that keeps us dancing while 
we hope for better choices, the instinct to
forget the body by using the body. Logic
grows extraneous with age, age superfluous
with stories. Someday, under the moon, our
liminal spinning will evoke the whistling
of a steam engine’s debut, serenading the
valley long past skepticism’s stingy curfew. 

Alix Perry is a trans writer living in Western Oregon. Their work has been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology and is published or forthcoming in Kissing Dynamite, beestung, and The Bitchin' Kitsch. They are currently seeking representation for their first novel, Black Sand. Find out more on Instagram and Twitter @_AlixPerry_ and at alixperrywriting.com.