Tyler Lemley
Bike Rides With the First Boy I Ever Loved
The days of after school bike rides
through the cracked streets of my hometown, heat
sticky like honey, but we were too young
to care. He stood on his bike pedals and coasted,
letting his shoulders set into a posture of pure
release.
I remember staring at his hands, how the veins burrowed up
and around his arms as he gripped the handlebars.
I remember the long push of foot on peddle,
and the hair that hurried up his legs: the strong
oak trunks I was jealous of.
I was often jealous, back then, of the girls
he brought flowers to, the girls with painted nails,
palm to palm with the hands mine yearned for.
Because he never touched me like that.
Once he took me under an unnamed bridge,
worn and worthless with weathered cracks, straight
to the huddle of dehydrated puddles-- the creek-- handing
me a crawdad on a white thread noose.
His arms, those burrowed veins, a fidget away.
His legs, those leaves of hair, a feather on my skin.
I’ll always hear his breath in my ear, and forever,
my skin is dipped in his sweet honey heat.
Earth Needs a Death Doula
Someone to hold the Earth’s hand,
tell her how much good she’s done.
How strong she’s been these last decades.
She’ll be scared. But as our bodies do
this planet knows how to die.
Knows how to usher out the ecology.
And the doula will guide her through
her rising shores. Through the falling redwoods.
Through the slow slipping of oxygen.
And the Sun will be watching, of course.
And the moon will be there
like a dog lying at its owners feet.
So now is time for the death bed.
For the advance care directive.
For Earth to get her car title switched over.
For the passing out of her jewelry
and the picking out of a casket.
For her sisters to gather and touch her skin.
And for the doula to help us all grieve.
Dinner with an Old Friend at a Pizza Place in Town
Eyes burning from greasy air, we slurp
stringy cheese. Get it stuck on our chins.
I have a beard now. Smile lines. The clawing
crack of crow’s feet. She has red lipstick.
Blue highlights. The beginnings of insomnia
under her eyes. She hums indie grunge
‘cause she’s a fan now. We get drunk in public
‘cause we can now.
Our first beer was at a high school grad party.
Warm Coors. Offensively repulsive. We gurgled
it down. Stumbled around the party.
The inevitability of fermented wheat.
Of using the empty bottle as an excuse
to kiss boys. They were thrilled to kiss her. Re-spun
when it landed on me. Except the one.
The hillbilly. His hick hickies after beer three.
Back of his daddy’s pickup. His tongue
thick with wanting. Cock gorged on desire.
No lube but he wanted to try. Spit. Strain.
Slipped in. Lasted seconds. Told me he loved me.
At the pizza place, she tells me he’s dead now.
Car crash. He was drunk. His wife
skipped the funeral. On his gravestone
someone spray painted queer
in red, dripping letters.
Tyler Lemley is a queer, Texan poet who received their Bachelor of Arts in Theatre Arts and English from the University of the Incarnate Word in San Antonio, Tx. They have been published in The Tusculum Review, Does It Have Pockets, Black Fox Literary, and elsewhere, with work forthcoming in Fourteen Hills.
