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The sound of chirping birds was a song I did not write, but I listened.

By Joe NastaPublished 2 years ago 1 min read
Photo by Tomas Kirvėla on Unsplash

This morning, the light streaming through the window felt queer

on my face. Or having these cheeks and nose and eyes did.

Any face, or this one. Mine. The breeze on my toes sticking

out from the blanket and the heat of my legs under the wool.

Being in bed and inside of a body. Sweat stuck to the skin

of my hips, my inner thighs, my scrotum: this all mine and me

a body rising from unconsciousness as if that were natural.

The sound of chirping birds was a song I did not write,

but I listened. I woke up when the song hit me like light.

The bird beaks pricked my skin.


This morning, the light was queer when it hit me.

I rose and left my body. I flew to the birds.

This poem was included in my book "I want you to feel ugly, too," which can be read on issuu.

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About the Creator

Joe Nasta

Hi! I'm a queer multimodal artist writing love poems in Seattle, one half of the art and poetry collective Eat Yr Manhood, and head curator of Stone Pacific Zine. Work in The Rumpus, Occulum, Peach Mag, dream boy book club, and others. :P

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  • Brittany Nelson2 years ago

    Great poem! :)

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