[ Issue #2 ]

Maggie Olson

 

 

No plain Jane

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From the moment she walked into the the room I was struck:
heavy lined eyes almost overwhelmed her face, her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail

that brushed against her hips as she walked. She was a fucking universe
disguised as a woman.
I’d never wanted anyone more.

All the boys I’d kissed
seem so insignificant –
string lights trying to outshine the full moon.
I was silly putty in her hands,
she could make me any shape she chose to.
I don’t think she ever knew
the way she blasted my world apart
and let me emerge as someone new.
We lost touch quickly,
as crushes tend to do.
Still, I can never forget what she made me feel, it’s written all over me underneath my skin: queer, queer, Queer!
It might as well be the oxygen in my blood. Thank you, Jane, for teaching me to breathe.

 

 

 

not woman

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Woman.

The word flows smoothly off my tongue except for the tiny, jagged piece
that lodges in the back of my throat and refuses to budge.

I’ve never spoken fully before;
that little piece has always cut off a part of my voice. I will speak my truth in full now:
I am not a woman.
Nor am I a man.

I live somewhere in the glorious space between the two, dancing on the stars sprinkling that sacred universe.
I circle woman like a moon,
never quite touching.

Ah, this is what it feels like to live in my truth, finally free to use my full voice.

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Maggie Olson (she/they) is a poet and adventurer who lives in Chicago with their spouse and a cranky box turtle. When they aren't writing you can find them in the woods or on a beach somewhere. Find more at maggieolsonpoetry.com