Naming My Angels And Demons (A Poem)
(Hi. I’m Justin Martin. Throughout history, in religions both pagan and Abrahamic, there’s a huge value placed on naming things. Knowing something’s true name is a way of either binding it, in the case of demons, or loving it better, in the case of angels. I thought that, as a disabled person, it’d be helpful for me to name some things before I transition to adulthood.)
NAMING MY ANGELS AND DEMONS
By Justin Martin
To the nights when I’m still up at 3 AM wondering what will happen if my child wants to learn how to throw a football, I name you Ambrose.
To the realization, at an early age, that I would have to learn to open even the heaviest of doors, because nobody would ever bother to turn the buttons on, I name you Andronikos.
To the people who, earnestly and without malice, ask me if I have a penis as casually as old ladies ask to borrow cups of sugar, I name you Arcadius.
To the thankfulness that my penis, unlike the vast majority of my body, is still on speaking terms with me, I name you Aristocles.
To the feeling when you see a little girl playing Dance Dance Revolution at an arcade, simultaneously hating her for not realizing the miracle and loving her for never having to, I name you Arsenios
To the moment when a small cousin is climbing on my wheelchair like a jungle gym and I understand that fear, pity, and shame are all adult inventions, I name you Basilious .
To all of the birthday cakes I’ve barely eaten at the parties I’ve barely been invited to, I name you Cassander.
To all of the mothers who forced their children to invite me anyway, but never forced themselves to consider why their children and their society put me on an island, I name you Cyrus.
To the glorious chocolate drop contained within the three second pause after I make a cripple joke, when the audience considered if their laughter would tan them in the afterlife, I name you Demetrius
To the people who decided to call it “The Special Olympics” instead of “The Olympics That Even NBC Won’t Air”, I name you Draco.
To the Center For Disease Control, who all too often seems to have placed a quarantine on any table I sit at, I name you Euclid.
To the people just insane enough to break the quarantine, I name you Eutropius.
To the years where there was mulch around the swings and slides of the playground, where I learned the value of the people who were more comfortable outside of it, I name you Georgios.
To the six seconds before I drift under a surgical knife, exhaling to draw the border between the times when things happen through me and the time when things happen to me, I name you Herodotus.
To comic books, where it is more likely for someone to be bitten by multiple radioactive spiders than it is for them to live happily while disabled, I name you Homer.
To the little battles for dignity, whose cannon-shots are seen in the eyes of people who hear me sing a stave of music or help me set up a decent spare in bowling, I name you Isidore.
To my doctor, who still asks me if I’m having unprotected sex every time we have an appointment, proving that even medical school can’t kill one’s optimism, I name you Kleopatra.
To the constant dread that takes hold when people ask me what I did this weekend and I remember that most people can fit into their cars, I name you Leonidas.
To the realization that my parents felt worse hearing that than I did writing it, I name you Linus.
To all of the energy I subconsciously devote to not looking spastic, I name you Myron .
To whatever force blessed me with the ability to, when told that God will heal my legs, not respond with “is that before or after he fixes your brain?”, I name you Nikon .
To the fear that I’ll want to go around one more time, less limited, I name you Olympos.
To the peace in knowing that if I don’t live to see a just world, I can make sure that my children do, I name you Philon.
Ambrose, Andronikos, Arcadius, Aristocles, Arsenios, Basilious, Cassander, Cyrus, Demetrius, Draco, Euclid, Eutropius, Georgios, Herodotus, Homer, Isidore, Kleopatra, Leonidas, Linus, Myron, Nikon, Olympos and Philon, I cast you into the arms of my great-grandfathers for the sake of the fathers to come.
my neck is a canvas painted rouge by your mouth and i remember yesterday with the sort of sweetness reserved for chocolate and
good weather — on the brink of leaving, the see you soon imprinted against my jugular, you kissed me and it felt like a promise in disguise
/
i remember april like — the gentle dampness of your hair post-shower, the warmth of your palms still astonishing — still overwhelming, the slink of familiar music — getting to know you, bluer than blue — i watched with roses underneath my tongue and hands in my back pockets— dazed, confused, you turned me into a dreamer — nineteen and still so kind — i wanted everything and nothing you could give me all at once
/
i remember may— like becoming, arriving at the curve of your smile with the singular thought — oh this is how i once thought it would go now — i remember if i could, i’d film the inside of me to show you how my entire body twisted for every litany that fell from your lips in the drowsy curtain of that afternoon —
/
and here we now exist in the wanting — the waiting — the sharp knife of believing — that i won’t just have to remember one day — the way my hips turn at the slight glint of teeth — instead, today i think of tomorrow — and how i am falling again at the sound of my own name when you’re saying it.
- I’M STILL FALLING FOR YOU, x.v
you make me feel like an alternate reality
lighthouse boy dances in green boxers – backyard suddenly a sea where he shines saccharine wet – (the sky is crying too) – we are 18 and my hands are still warm from the soufflés at our rendezvous – still thinking – romance is tricky and soft sweet – like cream on his upper lip, four hours ago – and now, the curve of his eyes – gentle hollows of a man, waiting, dangerous, alive – skinny dipping is smart until my playlist hits the ground with his shirt – lorde plays boom boom boom boom with my teeth – heart hammering to the time of his laughter – (if the sky was falling, it would look to you) – temptation is an open gate, is the path of water – trees bend and shake – thunder cracks but you stay – in less clothing and lesser light – in the tide flooding ribcage – there you are – lighthouse boy! – with a striped grin – singing along to words which mean surrender in his language – come home in mine – it’s good – it’s sacred – it’s summer.
- IT’S RAINING WHEN HE RUNS OUTSIDE - by x.v, published in The Murmur House
art. art is god. because god is supposed to make you feel something good, she’s/ he’s/ it’s meant to be something tangibly intangible you can taste on the tip of your tongue, not exactly there but just enough and that’s god. God. the thing you can’t remember but always know. i will never call myself an atheist because i have heard you laugh at 3:45 am and i have left my world in your fingertips and seen my entire future in your eyes and i think that’s more than enough proof that there’s something more beautiful than our shipwrecked bodies out there. art is the seashore we fucked on for the first time, and art is the name i will worship until the day you die. i will find heaven and hell in the sand. life is stolen treasure anyway
- DO YOU KNOW WHAT GOD IS ? by x.v
i do still wonder what would’ve happened if we had burned our love down instead of waiting for it to burn us.
we were a rogue lighter, a flaming match about to touch our fingers. there was no god, there was no peace, there was fire and wreckage and glass embedded into my palm.
please do not forget me, please do not let me be a living scar only for your convenience. i lived in your shadow for so long, i let myself burn in front of your goddamned face and you said nothing.
i wish you had let me go, i wish you had let our love burn to the ground like rome, like our dreams, like the end of the world. instead, you left me in flames, reaching for your hand.
- the flame burns heavier in the dark (via urbanings)
ARIES, the world can feel like one giant scratched record, but it’s your responsibility to keep the music going.
TAURUS, you are my best friend and my second heartbeat. our time together is golden.
GEMINI, fight your battles without bruising your knuckles.
CANCER, a winter skyline pressed into spring, the weather isn’t as good as you are but i’m glad you’re here.
LEO, come home come home come home already. my knees are violet from begging, my neck empty from missing you.
VIRGO, I hope cities taste like what you dreamed them to be.
LIBRA, your secret playlists are what I think about when I stare at my ceiling fan. everything feels like your eyes.
SCORPIO, you are eden fruit and glory personified.
SAGITTARIUS, not every fairytale has a good ending, but the crown fits better than my tongue.
CAPRICORN, you feel like a far-away star who’s orbit I find myself crash landing into with each exhale. I am so fatefully lucky to know you.
AQUARIUS, march is all falling petals and thighs too lonely. this is all temporary though, even you and me and this god.
PISCES, your love is immortal, it is a first religion. pray for me.
- MARCH MESSAGES TO THE SIGNS, x.v
If sex is an illusion, I want to stop waking up thinking about your thighs, about your chest, about the halo of your neck. The sun is a reminder of a rain storm.
never was a girl / before the blood
moon hardens [in the sky] / puddle of rust
[on tender skin] or the man / who made me jagged
i wake up [& become a reminder] / Rabbit
where’d you put your keys / girl?
- Cornflake Girl By torrin a. greathouse, published by Rising Phoenix Review
(via risingphoenixpress)