Jesse Rice-Evans

Jesse Rice-Evans is a steadfast Southerner and queer poet.  The nonfiction editor of Identity Theory, she cuts her own hair and is aggressively pro-Rihanna. Her first chapbook, Soft Switch, is out from Damaged Goods Press. Find her online @riceevans



Another Drawl


I see two things in the blue your body gulps: roundness, cooling violet, a dry sadness scraped away into shards of your autumn skins, your haunch a fishing village aflame with line and shadow


The way a vineyard does more than bloom, the timbre of October loosening, parquet floors sprinkled with flecks of storm water, a frill of canvas sopping in the foyer.


You couldn’t begin to see the cartography of my desire: ruched and augmented, crackling haughty noise, ankle pooling out of boot, legs spread open, knees draped caverns, folded map of my self burned around its soft edges



The Pool II


Long live Thursdays, gentle thrum of tide on old wood, crossing the bridge to drip young


Front door a poison, knob slick with split where it should have been cool cinderblock


What are we made of? A knocking prevails, windows cracked low key, quiet urge to transform, unignorable and long-haired , blood bath between my teeth, lips rimmed with salt speck


My fist for your eyelash, a ride for a gulp; you call me by my new name, leave me hooked on the back of your closet, street wear, that night in the pool, naked crust of moon held underwater, the ground leaking the hormones my blood couldn’t balance, my organs slurped like milkshakes


When my brow slips you know I am low on forgiveness, relentless push towards horizon unknowable, alone in the study making calls, my feet bare against rough grass, fireflies, rope hammock curving under my hips, belting my jeans higher


I took whatever I could my hands on because you were in the room

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