she was first clay, lumpy horse

galloping glide over carpet 

like blade to ice

a child’s plaything 

back masked by painted saddle

play her in reverse 

a thumbprint appears over my other eye

on Ash Wednesday 


then she grew synthetic hair, blondie boy 

hips shuffling into a dress 

like caterpillars to chrysalides 

a birthday party

taffeta tutu dragged through the thunderstorm

crack the door a little 

and she spits the apples back 

into the crotch of the tree


then she grew a broomstick from her throat  

hobby horse, used to ride her 

into the death metal 

like a game of Jenga

towers stretch and sway and serrate

against the dappled gray vault of heaven 

crush the sugarcube in your palm 

and a sty appears over my other eye

on my wedding day 

Then she grew an iron shoe 

in my foyer, lucky girl, 

winking at the spirits 

like neon red vacancy signs 

on the horizon

a soft landing

wooden interiors folding into love letters

knees buckling under the weight of a moviekiss, 

dust kicked up when you fall so madly in -


stay after the credits

and i fall asleep in the air conditioner 

and everything has started over

germ lynn (they/them/theirs) is a writer and cellist living in Brooklyn. Their work has been published by Radix Media and Hypergraphic Press. They are working on their first book of poetry, to be implanted under their skin.