By Alix Perry
There is a cave on the coast where my secrets / used to live. I let them loose on an outgoing tide /
and did up the place with pale green paint / and a queen-sized bed. A slate sectional, / orange
armchair, pristine shag rug on which to rest / my sandal-tan feet. Down here, seven-speaker /
stereo sounds like you wouldn’t believe. The sunrise / shines in early come spring, winded scent
of calcium / and kelp. I trod the beach and bluffs, the woodlands / upstream. The melody of the
edge is my plaything. / A few miles north, the candystriped lighthouse, / beam spinning out to
sea. Is its keeper man or / machine? I consider visiting. I don’t visit. / The waves brim with foam
and still claim hunger. / Leaching warmth from my body, consumption / as urge for equilibrium.
Grim synergy. A proportion of light / penetrates the surface, the rest reflects away. / Often, I
pluck the broken homes / of the hunted and rinse / them clean, graze their edges both worn / and
new. My driftwood shelves fill with / such keepsakes, losing luster / as they dry. No matter.
Some among us / wear our premonitions as pearls.
Alix Perry (they/them) is a trans writer from the Pacific Northwest. Their work has been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology and can be found in beestung, The B’K, Rejection Letters, and elsewhere. Their chapbook, Tomatoes Beverly, is forthcoming with Querencia Press. More at alixperrywriting.com.
Hot Pot Magazine 