wildscape. literary journal

Humpty Dumpty Fragments
by Jade Gaynor

            My first memories are 
                       heaven in my head,
                       silence,
                       dead animals,
                                    then what teeth feel like

            I remember stillness
                       as mercy, motion
		                    as the violence after,
                       how different each part
                       resonates with impact:
		                    backside high-sting,
		                    dull sudden hollow head,
		                    heart juddered out of beat
			                          to chest

                       I remember the way betrayal
            sounds from inside

                       I remember handling 
  		                    what was handed out of turn
						                                       or reason

			                          I remember overbearing, as they do,
                       and a crawfish bleeding orange in a backyard

            I remember the boy who played naked with me
                       vague father-shaped voids
            traveling forward in time
with no memory

            I remember when night was cover,
                       us one more mystery in the midst

  		                    I remember not remembering when it stopped:
				                             lava dreams, shame,
			                          wet piss in the mornings

                       I remember switch-up,
  		                    alone to lonely as safe,
			                          as bloodless,
			                          catastrophe to keep quiet

			                          I remember quiet,
				                             small unmoving deaths

				                             I remember distance in the day,
								                                       green, and floss-cut pink

  		                    I remember pleasure, hot and nauseous
pressing on skin miles above
            harm

            I remember knots, 
  		                    plastic chains, 
                       hoarse

  		                    I remember ants and fire

                       I remember frowns and secret

I remember wind on my face 
                       and an open car door

  		                    I remember run, hide, cry,

				                             I remember water, 
								           branch, weight,

			                          I remember candy 
  		                    in the throat

                       I remember marble 
            in the throat

            I remember steel 
                       in the skin

            I remember bleach,
             sight, scrape

            I remember screaming, silence,
                       other songs I wrote
  		                    when I was trying
			                          not to be here

			                          I remember Death, next to me
				                             in four basements

  		                    I remember Death, loving me
				                             in seven homes

								           I remember Death, there for me,
										                                            but saying no.

								           I remember resignation, holding

								           I remember holding

								     I remember the way betrayal 
				                             sounds from inside

				                                  I remember distance 
 				                             in the day

				                           I remember

about the author // Jade Gaynor

Jade Gaynor is a trans poet from Atlanta who attended the University of Massachusetts MFA for Poets & Writers. She enjoys that picnic tables appear in the most unexpected places. You can find more at linktr.ee/jadegaynor

Instagram: @jadeofthelongwords
Website