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
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.