[Unspecified Endocrine Disorder]
means the Census Bureau pretends
I do not exist—I can traverse
binaries, but not borders.
Larynx clanks how raindrops fall into rusty
wheelbarrows: a workzone marked forever under construction.
Her name is buried in decade-old
attic dust, my mother still trips
over pronouns like leftover shrapnel. Caught
in crosshairs of trauma-patient
dressings that wrap my body: scars
like hidden playground gossip.
They number-chart my time on Earth—
how many years I am post-
surgery, by how many months I’ve barbed-
wire pressed my skin.
Metal is far too good a conductor:
synthetic hormone-altered blood poisons
reproductive organs like tetanus, a cold scalpel.
How lovers push me onto beds
of nails when they ask to flick
the light on. There is a reason soil is most fertile
after volcanic eruptions, gardens grow
in pick-up trucks over years of abandonment.
I cannot help the victim who lives only in family
photographed memories: canonized wanted posters
of eternal makeshift obituaries.
Codie Hazen is a sophomore studying English, Adolescent Education, and Women’s and Gender Studies. He calls Wilmington, Delaware home. You are most likely to find him in coffee shops, ice rinks, climbing mountains, or longing for the open road.
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