days I’m so angry I can’t breathe
in a small town that cinches round me
like a noose, narrow
sidewalks, narrow minds
but I hold my elbows in, don’t
meet their eyes
streets recoil, buildings back away
toward the edge of town, the precipice
I snap the rope and plunge
on and on, through scrub, through
spindly trees, grabby branches, dirt
to the fence, the razor wire
the turkey stench
warehoused, waiting
beaks and feet already chopped, birds
barely breathe, trapped
behind blank walls, breast to fattened
breast, dust and ammonia
their eyes, I imagine, bright
with fear.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 26, Issue 6.
Jude Marr (he, him) is a Pushcart-nominated trans poet, editor and teacher. Jude’s first full-length collection, We Know Each Other By Our Wounds, came out from Animal Heart Press in 2020. His work has also appeared in many journals and anthologies, most recently Ghost City, Cutleaf, Reed Magazine, and Masculinity: An Anthology of Modern Voices (Broken Sleep Books, 2023.) Born in the UK, lived in the US, currently in the process of moving to Portugal.
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