Misha Crafts
Je Suis the Black Wizards
I’m going
woo
for the summer.
An inclination
to drape
myself in stone
& invert
my eyelids
to catch water.
I don’t fear
bad omens.
I encourage them.
A squad of crows
picking at
a blackened
hillside.
The stubble
of a controlled burn
I invite across
my body.
I want
to be cooked.
On May 6th
at 6:30pm
the moon falls
into the shadow
of the earth
& I soak
up its
baleful rays
stretched out
like a tremendous
aberrant steak.
I bathe
my cells in
expired light
until it frays
the ends
of my DNA.
Inside of me
there is
nothing but
blast beats &
a Transylvanian
hunger.
A dungeon
of insight &
a terrarium
for my affections.
The flesh
is soil
& I depend
on fantasy
to nurture it.
To bring
what’s beneath
to the surface.
What’s a face
anyways?
Five holes
with light
behind them
dabbed
with a little
corpse paint.
A theater
for the soul
framed by my curls.
My beauty
is not
cosmetic
it's necessary.
To turn
myself into
a brutal &
diminishing object.
To frighten
myself
when I catch
a glimpse.
Flowerland
Great name
for a
mediocre
shoegaze band
or a
florist
in Colma.
*
The funeral
home is
a cartoon
castle
in a golf
green field.
A whipped
topping
of atmosphere
hangs
over the 280.
A satellite
dish is
squatting
on the hillside.
Cold creeps
into the
sunlight
of September.
It coaxes
an exclamation
point
from my
lips.
Autumn
is eating
my friendships.
*
History
is more
than
anxiety.
The bones
of the
baby boomers
will
one day
transform
into
fossil fuels.
The necropolis
becomes
a boomtown
& the
boomtown is
already
a necropolis.
Death collecting
at the
corners
of its mouth.
*
The short,
sad
truth of
luxury is
it doesn't
get you
far.
A menthol
flavored
steak.
A perfectly
plated
Sunflower.
An outlet mall.
Once I could
eat an
entire
tide pool
but today
all I
want is
a hard
swallow of
tap water
spiked
with chlorophyll
to help me
photosynthesize.
*
I wake up
& comb
my eyelashes.
I’m now
exactly
half my
mother’s age.
She’s proud
of the
obituaries
she wrote
for her
mother & brother.
I try
to brush
away a life
of fear.
*
Clouds
Are simply
steam
rising off
the ocean.
Car dealerships,
a police
station,
& casino.
It’s great
to be
alive
in Colma.
It’s terrible
to be
alive
in Colma.
Thank god
Summer
is over.
Now
I can begin.
Desperate Living
If we
move out
of this
house
will the
fleas
follow us?
I hope so.
Theft
is a sign
of life.
The drains
are
backed up
with our
biology.
There is
soot
all over
everything.
The creamer
expires on
Valentine's day.
The body is
a weak
container
for
experience.
The weather
is a
rumor
we traffick
in daily.
As we enter
Winter
the silences
get
longer.
The whole
year is
leaning on us.
Our appetites
are supplied
by our
era.
The freeway
winds its
way
into our
stomachs.
Our affection
was
always
conditioned
by these terms.
Shadow
of a flag
my neighbor
flies finds
its way
through my
window
at sunset.
Its silhouette
writhes
on the
hardwood.
To press
the pink
sky
against my
my cornea.
To pluck
my iris
from
my head
& offer
it to you
as a keepsake.
There are
many
ways to
worship.
I admit
that
people
interest me.
But where
am I
supposed
to find them?
Misha Crafts is a transwoman living in California. She is a poet and essayist whose work has appeared in places like Tripwire, Hypocrite Reader, and Jewish Currents. She has a chapbook titled "Beef Cherries" forthcoming from Almanac Press in Fall of 2024 and is the poetry editor of the publishing project Smooth Friend. You can find her on twitter @missing_craps.