Genres & Genders

Isabella Gonzalez | Spring 2022

Chapter 1

I, the little hero, swallow the sun,
tired of the torturous heat that flushes
my skin petal pink. 

I swallow the sun and its core of endless 
light burns my delicate insides into reds, 
an escape plan from this prison made 
of bone and dust. 

I swallow the sun and he spits me out,
taking my heart with him, a fleshy seed
of wonder and hunger. 

I swallow the sun and my body is surprisingly cold. 
Light can return but never stay. Energy never created, 
never destroyed, just alone in the atmosphere, passing
through lungs and soon-to-be tea leaves. I swallow the sun 
that sprays scorch marks around the hole at the center of my chest. 

I swallow the sun, yet I am not his home. 
The little hero returns to their chambers as a shade
rather than a godlike spirit. 

Chapter 2

I, the fair prince, await my maiden
outside her cobblestone tower. 

I think I’m waiting for a maiden. 

I never got a name, so I call out several 
with care. The birds bonding in birch trees
flock away together into polka dot clouds. 
I fix my crown with a puddle’s reflection 
and wait anxiously on the grounds. I pass
the time by counting stones, braiding blades
of grass, making room for the creatures 
that rightfully claim this domain as their own. 
As the sun settles and sets for the moon’s phases, 
a crisp midnight air rattles my armor and locks 
itself between the layers of my linen. I stare up
at the shuttered windows of the tower and wait. 
I wait for a sign of acknowledgment, of danger, 
of anything. 

Who am I waiting for? What am I waiting for? Why was I here again? 
The bugs give me space on the dirt floor. I rest my head
against the building’s blocks and imagine if I were a piece
of concrete, if I were completely still as a tree stalk, if 
I made no sound when I took a breath. 

My crown supplies a tension headache as I begin 
to wonder why I earned the title of royal. Was I loyal? 
Was I beautiful? Was I wise or kind or the bravest within
the crowd? 

Or maybe, I begin to think, I was the only one who would keep coming back. 
How old am I again? 

Chapter 3

I am a self-entitled writer with
a lack of imagination and vocabulary. 
I am a student with the penmanship 
of a chimpanzee and attention span 
of a child. I don’t have much to say except that. 

My soul is stuffed with decayed petals and dried
seafoam and dirty pages. 

I am man I am woman I am everyone and I am no one and I am people
that exist and people that don’t. I am body and mind and heart and soul, 
tangled and twisted and tired. I am sorry, I am so sorry, I am trying, I am trying
so goddamn hard that I’ll shake the heavens out of the sky like a lone pine cone 
off the branch of the last Christmas tree of the season.