Small Town GaysBy Jes Battis
Haunt the ice rink
sipping hot chocolate trying not to think about the curve on his stick. Dub it all on mix tapes that can’t hold the sound but capture only the hiss of geese in suburban yards. Watch his leg pump the pedal wondering which laws of physics would break if you touched that hot element. Double bounce into orbit animal satellites knowing the hard kiss of the springs. Peel sunburnt skin digging under pink until you reach the blue Slurpee heart of disaster. Stand on his porch raccoon caught in misadventure as you wait for someone to wash this all from your paws. WoofBy Jes Battis
Scruff is an app
for people who think they’re better than Grindr. A woof says you’re cute but not enough to message. Living with dogs, I know that a woof can mean danger love hunger my toy my bed my precious stick. The bars are always baffling and dark. I order chicken fingers and keep my autistic paws quiet under the table. I didn’t used to talk. I learned by Duolingo. You’ll hear a faint accent. The guy tells me about the time he passed out in a bathtub the scar on his wrist a demure bite. He works for a hockey team whose mascot is endangered. He’s everyone I’ve ever listened to in a maze of pint glasses and furious eyes. Our tails could make a love knot, but in the end, I don’t woof. When I get home the husky forms an ivory comma: we wait for her brother to explode down the stairs on hot golden springs. How many times have I pulled something from your jaws that startled me? Pressed by warm fur, I open the app. A woof. A night stretching perfectly blank. Do dogs tire of barking? Never. We sing from deep in our throats all the way down to the joy box. We give everything away. Jes Battis (they/them) teaches literature and creative writing at the University of Regina. Their poems have appeared in The Malahat Review, The Ex-Puritan, The Capilano Review, and Poetry is Dead, among other literary magazines. Their new novel, The Winter Knight, is forthcoming from ECW in April of 2023.
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