Letter from a Young Poet
“Do not write love-poems; avoid at first those forms that are too facile and commonplace: they are the
most difficult, for it takes a great, fully matured power to give something of your own where good and
even excellent traditions come to mind in quantity.” —Rainer Maria Rilke
Daddy Rilke, I’ve failed you. I’m a simp
for the pussy, and when a girl gets me
excited there’s no stopping the train.
Even, but especially, when my head
is on the tracks before it. Maybe you’re intrigued
now, maybe that’s where the poem is. My head
is on the tracks and I can’t stop
the train, in no cases, not even of emergency.
Not when I pull down the chain,
the chain is already around my neck.
Forgive me Daddy Rilke, for I have simped.
Again I lay my head on those tracks
and I say rail me, young maiden,
I’ve been waiting for someone like you to end
me. I’ve wondered though, when I’m satiated—
when someone holds up the picture of their future and points
to my face, says I’ve been looking
for you, maybe that’s where the love poems end
and the life poems begin.
You see, Daddy Rilke,
everyone wants to be told they hit it right.
but I want to be told, there’s no right after you
Main Street
familiar
I know I have a crush on her when she appears in the nightmare, becomes the most important ingredient in its recipe. This place of fear and high stakes welcomes her in sinister reverence. You’re here, I say. Like always, before this, I attempt to escape from my mother. Now, I’m walking next to my crush on a street, littered with pastel 50’s cars, so stunning I hardly notice the man careening towards us, laughing maniacally. I’m going to get you now, he says, bashing through the curve and onto the sidewalk. Now I see it is not just any man, but my biological father. My crush is gone. I’m about to be crashed into by a man I left behind as soon as I could. I am really scared now.
blurred
I knew I could love her when I couldn’t find her in the fire. In dream two, we’re kissing, it feels natural, though this is the first time our mouths collide in any universe. I tell her I didn’t know she liked me. Of course I do, she says, her hand cupping my face with a purity that’s only familiar in the peach-foggy ease of dreams. Then we are not together; I walk a Scandinavian-style street. I think I recognize the building we were warm-mouthed in, but I’m not solid on that, the lucidity has begun to slip through me like sand. The buildings to my left are on fire now, and one of them is hers. I know she won’t be there. Still, I call her name. As with all loves I’ve known, I run straight into the flames, through the door I’m most certain of.
S. Fey (they/he) is a Trans writer living in LA. Currently, they are the poetry editor at Hooligan Magazine, and co creative director at Rock Pocket Productions. Their debut poetry collection, decompose, is out with Not a Cult Media. His work has appeared in American Poetry Review, Poet Lore, The Sonora Review, and others. They love to beat their friends at Mario Party. Find them online @sfeycreates.