October

if i could, i’d have a cat, and
learn to like myself, and never
go to parties. i feel dizzy,
and i’m dreaming of october,
when i never seemed to know what
i was saying, but i felt the
words between my teeth and under-
neath my tongue. i used to go out
after midnight, whisper prayers, and
tell the bunnies that i loved them.
in the mornings i would take my
coffee warm, and i’d write poems.
i would dream of how my awkward
words could fuck shit up. just wait. i’m
always waiting. i am starving
for good news. i want to know that
there’s a girl whose mother loves her.
if you love me, then you love all
of the adjectives i’ve picked out
for myself. i am the sinner
and the sin. so move your lips, and
say the words, if you still care.

i sometimes cry, but still believe
the only thing that’s left to be
is angry. soon enough we’ll all
be angry. soon enough; just wait.


April Clark is a trans woman and junior at the University of Washington, in Seattle. She started at UW as a freshman at the age of 15, and is studying English and Comparative History of Ideas. Her poem ‘Communion Days’ can be found in Gyroscope Review’s Winter 2019 issue.

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