#john compton

there is a girl upset in the mirror ruing over her eyes ● she marinates her skin with clay & honey & salts her tongue before removing it ● her unwonted body parts splotch the afternoon undergrowth ● she positions her face in the kiln, pulls out a mask with dried tears john compton (b. 1987) is a gay poet who is the author of 20 books/chapbooks, who lives in kentucky with his husband josh and…

my mouth, a mouse trap—       clamped shut. your desecration. you subtly stray into unfocused. the sun is an apricot. its crayon light, exfoliating the trees. the leaves, green wet stars, shimmer in the heat. dragonflies raid with air strikes. i try to commit myself but you are animalistic & abrasive, so i tie my hands to your feet— become your manhandled       lover: weight & mass. john compton…

the sprawling woodland gives birth to a leaf. winter allocates the last rights. john compton (b. 1987) is a gay poet who is the author of 20 books/chapbooks, who lives in kentucky with his husband josh and their dogs and cats, and mice. his latest full-length book is my husband holds my hand because i may drift away & be lost forever in the vortex of a crowded store, published with Flowersong…

i listen to the light of strangers, their language, like fish gasping for breath. we’re in a polluted aquarium. glass reflecting everything into the center— to the dancing queen: mouth glugging open & bouncing closed when all the bubbles escape. an oxygen that none reach. lurking the enclosure a small shark bites at us: demanding we buy fins of other fish. they’re great designs; you’ll love your…

i’ll die calmly having dreamt about our date for years. his mouth crested my body like a tide pulling seaweed against the current— forcing: to break my spirit & carry scraps of the orgasm on his legs. john compton (b. 1987), author of 17 books/chapbooks, is a gay poet/writer who lives in kentucky with his husband josh and their dogs and cats,. his latest full-length book is my husband holds my…

i represent something that is familiar to somebody. a garden too invaded by creeping thistle. i must be sick. i must be eroded. my body, muddy and moist, leaving me bloated and drowning. the water wasting out my pores, the religious patrol with contempt. resentment falling from their mouths. it is too harsh to not be a choice: you belong in hell. may their teeth resume chewing. may my bones be…

—John Compton

your hospital bed took you

into its arms and taught you ​

about caskets