(double) bypass
Lily Renner
there are millions of veins in the human / body but it would be impossible / to count them all /
and, if necessary, / the body can create more / so that blood doesn’t stain / the carpet / when it inevitably lashes the tongue / like gospel / like a cheap bottle of whiskey / like heaven / and now
you are on the floor and it seems blood is doing just that / to what extent, exactly, does a vein /
differ from an artery / when all the same nectar pools in front of you? / i would like to know how
/ to measure the distance / from the forefinger to / a place where gravity (resolve?) permits
standing / where there are no hospital gowns / or, alternatively, everyone / has their own hospital
gown / or, what is perhaps the most likely scenario, / there is no meaningful difference / between
a hospital gown and a cocktail dress / but then you would need to end / above the knee and i’m
afraid / of exposing my weather-worn joints to the windowpane / that which might splinter into millions of veins opalescent arrows / one hue for every mistake i’ve made / i wonder if this is
what pinhead felt like / if this is what it means to have once been human / if i am the sort of
priest worthy / of gospel
Lily Renner is a creative writing student at Western Washington University. She finds comfort in writing on her experiences with transmisogyny, otherness, and complex relationships with the body. Lily hopes to one day own a house.