Please be seated | Han Olliver

1 min read

my last meal as a girl I dined on
snow. the sky snared my teeth
but everyone pretended not to see.

the snow was luminous and wet.
a blue cat pooled in the eyes of
the guests while I picked sleet from my plate.

we have a real case of the emperor’s new clothes
I said. instead of laughter people chimed
their teeth with forks like at a wedding.

a caterwaul of peonies cinched
my table and sang until the cat in
every pupil wept hail stone tears.

still the tines clinked as the guests
poured another glass of ash.
I wanted to love the flowers.

some attendant ushered me outside where I
vomited sparrows, their wings
the size of wings.

tut tut, they clicked,
can’t hold your dinner? and I
pointed to my catacombs of clouds.

inside a floating face kissed
my mother and I could spy
through her pupils.

she was shy, she and I,
and her dilation made spheres in
the white room.

then the birds called me and asked if it was better
to forget the one thing or misremember.
they circled above my head,

misremember what, I must have said.
the voices inside called out asking
what are you pointing at in the dark

Han Olliver is a trans artist and poet in New York City. Their work has appeared in or is forthcoming from them., The Lingua Journal, Hobart Pulp, Redivider Poetry, and elsewhere. They are currently working on their first manuscript. Haunt them @hanolliver