Poetry by Jane Riley

as exhibited

                                                                               ways instead toward gems and jewels,
                                                                               gold and glass

                                                                              powerful powerful
                                                                              writ on my chest

                                                                              can i say to you
                                                                              that a mantra, my muscle,

                                                                              doesn’t wither, knows it’s true,
                                                                              we can solve each other’s problems

                                                                              by making a public between us
                                                                              and whipping them there

cow

                                                                              is substance; the redness
                                                                              of a cow an accident.

                                                                              the thoughts of a cow
                                                                              are blasphemes; the taste of a cow

                                                                              is single. i am wrong to forget
                                                                              people and the capacity for

                                                                              low tissue and hard suspicion. these
                                                                              come to me through a fence. but

                                                                              my survey is no threat. a person
                                                                              needs a process and a line and

                                                                              i can guess them. it is not four legs
                                                                              and deep-splotched color

                                                                              and a tuft-tipped switch. it is pageant
                                                                              and remove and day-through-day. this

                                                                              reaches me like a mannequin. the self
                                                                              can be so full: i am wrong to forget

                                                                              thought forget tissue forget need.

rejoinder

                                                                          
                                                                              when we hit each other
                                                                              it was for art, and when
                                                                              we cried it was because
                                                                              the art was good
 
                                                                              and the blows go on.

                                                                              sat there with names 
                                                                              and freedoms like no one
                                                                              will have in two years,
                                                                              strike-length apart,

                                                                              kiss me goodnight.

                                                                              our work fit to tape:
                                                                              in profile, chair-shaped and
                                                                              mugging tough, but
                                                                              your eyes were open, and

                                                                              my eyes were open.

                                                                              loving me, an abrasion.
                                                                              hit us pretty
                                                                              hit us simple
                                                                              hit us gone

                                                                              do the blows go on

Jane Riley is a writer and poet residing in East Lansing, Michigan. She is twenty-five and hella trans.