The Prophecy

Because I’m the seer deep within
the tower, preferring the whip
to the prayer cords, the rough wool

& hard stone to the downy pillow,
it’s too easy to hear it from
you, such prophecies of who I am

& will be — how can I believe unless
an old book says my name in code,
or my face appears in starlit

silhouette on the wall? Where is
my lake, my stone in the center
where a weapon lodges, waiting

to move for my hand alone?
If your word were mystic text,
ancient foresight; if you were

sworn to the truth like a knight
with an axe resting against
my bent neck; if you weren’t being

bribed by little gnomes, hormones,
to cast me in gold, in a light
of light, & bite your lip like that —

I’d fancy my mind the moon
on a cloudless night, my heart
the crisp water glowing around

an ancient altar, & my body 
the grail you take in both your hands
& bring to your lips.


T. Dallas Saylor (he/they) is a PhD candidate at Florida State University and holds an MFA from the University of Houston. His work meditates on the body, especially gender and sexuality, against physical, spiritual, and digital landscapes. He lives in Denver, Colorado.