She deserves this as much as the figurines on a tiered vanilla cake.
Juice and Lex. Beads of oil in a warm bath. Do you remember dancing in late snow outside the bar? A white balloon tangles on the power line.
Lex feels swollen on certain streets, in her room, walking through the market. Clumsy, or this t-shirt is too tight. Bleached teeth and mascara in a high school bedroom. Taking Juice’s pants off on a pullout couch. Catching the corner of a door frame. An indigo dress hangs in a closet for Thanksgiving with her
grandparents. Are you seeing anyone these days? Don’t worry, one day you’ll meet a man who will change your mind.
Lex feels visible from very far away.
In an empty and dry place, there is no name for what she is, queer. There’s no word on the family mantle for a love like aperture. Eyes like Arizona.
An expansive, delicate spreading. There are plenty of words for what she's not, for poured concrete and mortar. Can you stand on both sides of a wall? Starved for language.
The history of words falls short of a safe grammar, short of self. What would we be called? A Macrosoma soul, perched on a windowsill, if she were named divine—
by Alexa Chrisbacher, from Unprotected Lexicon