A Poem by Davy Knittle
Author: Poetry Editor
October 16, 2018
This week, a poem by Davy Knittle.
m a t e t a x
say to Alexa: I’m going to cut my hair and then I do. when I see her again she calls it a fauxward hawk. we hug in a doorway.
queercuts reclaim the fauxhauk from Pink. punk as fuck in the doctor’s office. 2002. ambient NPR.
a couple is making a podcast for the 50th anniversary of Loving v. Virginia. on the radio they say how appropriate the family’s name was. they enumerate strangers’ guesses at their respective relationships to their baby.
enroll in a training course where they learn to turbine-blow.
municipal field, and fifteen people lined up. hands on their knees, finger pressure, butts out, big cheeks and grass and exhale.
B and I avoid “love makes a family” like you avoid a squeeze if you’re a fruit.
turbine competition: it’s blowing a flag. register the winner’s wave with a sail meter. prize is a beach hat.
to our future child it’s like “you’re okay even though your parents are non-binary queers.” (we take turns being misgendered)
(handsome is the word of our home)
to each other we say “you’re my family.” which means yes. you. you always, and not, “I guess you can sit next to me in this pediatrician’s office.” we think it’s everything now, and we’re nowhere close to parents.
in the waiting room: sitting next to a nail biter. a hair masticator. back then, I drew out shirt collar chewing. blue was one flavor, red another. bonus for checks and stripes.
DAVY KNITTLE is the author of the chapbooks empathy for cars (horse less press 2016) and cyclorama (The Operating System 2015). His recent work has appeared in Fence, Jacket2, The Recluse, and Columbia Poetry Review. He lives in Philadelphia where he curates the City Planning Poetics series at the Kelly Writers House.