Tag Archives: Codie Hazen

Codie Hazen

[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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