Global City Press

Welcome to the literary metropolis.

My best friend
is a talking drum.
                                                               I thump her lightly
                                                                    with my thumb.

Drum, do you love me?
Drum, with your hair to the floor,
did you hear the fireworks last night?
You would have loved them. Your raspy cackle
is just what my fireplace needs.

                                                   Drum keeps me company
                                                                  in remote places. 

Drum calls to drum.
She’s dating a clarinet.                                    She’s dating
Reedy fellow. All in black                                 a turntable
with silver buttons.                                                    a flute
                                                                                     an 808
                                     She’s always been unlucky in love.

 Nobody wants a cracked drum.
She buzzes and she hums              They finger her crack
and that’s just at first.                 test its seams, and leave.
Everyone’s afraid: What if              (She laughs and cries
I play with her and she gets worse?         into her sleeve)

Did you hear the thunder last night, drum?
It’s nice to know,
            that there’s a bigger drum out there . . .

My best friend
is a talking drum.
                                                                                                      I thump her lightly
                                                                                                         with my thumb.
Drum, do you love me?
Drum, with your hair to the floor,
did you hear the fireworks last night?
You would have loved them. Your raspy cackle
is just what my fireplace needs.

                                                                       Drum keeps me company in remote places. 

Drum calls to drum.
She’s dating a clarinet.                                                               She’s dating
Reedy fellow. All in black                                                                       a turntable
with silver buttons.                                                                                  a flute
                                                                                                                    an 808
                                                                                         She’s always been unlucky in love.

 Nobody wants a cracked drum.
She buzzes and she hums                                                          They finger her crack
and that’s just at first.                                                                  test its seams, and leave.
Everyone’s afraid: What if                                      (She laughs and cries into her sleeve)
I play with her and she gets worse?

Did you hear the thunder last night, drum?
It’s nice to know,
            that there’s a bigger drum out there . . . 

Cool spring day
mirrors autumn
my dad looked ill
as he jogged up the hill

He fell and vanished.
Someone saw. But they won’t tell.
The birds cry out like fax machines.


                          I’ve flickered my way
                          through Erie, PA
                          but here, with you
                          I cry till nothing’s
                          left. You ask—                       


                          how far, the most distant star?

Cool spring day
mirrors autumn
my dad looked ill
as he jogged up the hill

He fell and vanished.
Someone saw. But they won’t tell.
The birds cry out like fax machines.

 

                                                                 I’ve flickered my way
                                                                 through Erie, PA
                                                                 but here, with you
                                                                 I cry till nothing’s
                                                                 left. You ask— 

 
                                                               how far, the most distant star?

You give me little bits of news:
Alex’s wife cleaned all the teacups,
McConnell’s weighing a national ban;
tossed celery and onion, how the cat
caught her jaw in her collar
and ran around at 2 am,
hacking and drooling.

I want to feel
how soft you are,
smell the sweat
on the back of your neck
squeeze you, rub your butt,
kiss your cheek,
palpate your earlobe.

I can’t wait
to watch Llamageddon
while you study medicine.

You give me little bits of news:
Alex’s wife cleaned all the teacups,
McConnell’s weighing a national ban;
tossed celery and onion, how the cat
caught her jaw in her collar
and ran around at 2 am,
hacking and drooling.

I want to feel
how soft you are,
smell the sweat
on the back of your neck
squeeze you, rub your butt,
kiss your cheek,
palpate your earlobe.

I can’t wait
to watch Llamageddon
while you study medicine.

                                   She found me out                                  side the door, rolling
                                      drunk I was
                                                            myself I told her
                       she who I was
                                              to become

                                                         She found me out
                      side the door, rolling
                                                            drunk I was
                                                                                  myself I told her
                                            she who I was
                                                                   to become

For Mary

Let’s pull and lay
the sheet.

Let’s lie here in
the sun,

grasses bunching
underneath

and kiss each other’s
lips.

Your breath is hot, your body soft
& warm
in linen.

I’ll kiss your thighs
inside
and giggle

Let’s stretch
like lazy lionesses
in the sun
far from the pride

For Mary

Let’s pull and lay
the sheet.

Let’s lie here in
the sun,

grasses bunching
underneath

and kiss each other’s
lips.

Your breath is hot, your body soft
& warm
in linen.

I’ll kiss your thighs
inside
and giggle

Let’s stretch
like lazy lionesses
in the sun
far from the pride


Lydia Host is a transgender writer based in Philadelphia. Her work has appeared in The RavensPerch Magazine, The Woven Tale Press, Oyster River Pages, OyeDrum Magazine, and others. Most of her published work can be found at her website, www.lydiasthost.com, and via her Instagram handle, @lydiahost1.