Scientists Don’t Know Shit &
          This Is Real Because We Feel It

Defying time and space, all things real according to scientists
we soar through the expanse comprised of moments, locations, 
matter, and possibility Your left hand loosely positioned on my 
right knee conducts the matter of me: pushing and pushing and 
pulling and pulling and imagining and reimagining what the 
future-that-doesn’t-exist might hold if only…
Tonight which is real according to the proof of your breath 
entering my own, I hold you sweetly and also painfully Aware 
of the hold impermanence has on all that matters Actual or not, 
we feel it: that push and pull and imagining and reimagining 
The animal soft of your bed guiding your left hand to the thick 
of my darkness Right or not, we know it: time and space and all 
the things we don’t pretend to understand were changed by 
the reflection of possibility in your eyes Exist with me here 
and now and if we never exist in that future, I still know that this 
is real because we feel it Your left hand conducting the matter of 
me made right in the animal soft of your bed, the darkness of 
possibility, the validity of this moment, your eyes and time and 
space And according to me scientists don’t know shit except how 
to stretch a theory across the reality of feeling We feel it: the 
possibility of all that matters or will matter This matter: me
holding you tonight And I am not a scientist so here I go knowing,
feeling, reeling, timing the space this moment will travel with me 
Tonight, I am 63 years old again I am defying time I am taking 
my last breath I am recounting all the moments that ever mattered 
I am back in tonight I am holding you conducting me I am real 
I am possibility I am matter I am defying space I am 63 I am 33 
I am in the animal soft of your bed I am taking my last breath 
I am defying all things scientists say are real I am breathing into 
the animal soft of your possibility I am holding you conducting me 
I am real 
I am

May There Only Be Sky
	after “Sonnet XI” -Pablo Neruda

Dropped into delusion
acutely aware of your creature absence
I strip the bedding, seeking proof 
before I pace the streets
carrying your scent from my jowls
Around my ankles, chains of devotion
strike against themselves
marking each step
Hungry and feral I lunge at shadows
flinch at air
Sniffing for your afterglow
I cringe at my appetite
its pathetic need for proximity
Your laughter fills twilight
My own ears’ deception
bringing this tired heart to its knees
I turn for my den
that dreary place of vacancy
Maybe you too hungered through your day
for my skin in your mouth
my song in your ears
At this moment might you be retracing
each of my measured movements
longing for my hot mouth
the throbbing beat of my heart
slamming against the cage of your own?
Your animal rustle wakes me from slumber
and I find myself in your arms
that sturdy place I journeyed through night for
I sigh with relief at your presence
relaxing into your hold
My eyes shift from your hands to the ceiling
and find instead, there is only sky 

Shuck It 
	after “Queer Miracle” - Tiana Clark

In Oregon they spread aggressively
repetitious vines blanketed
in brittle thorns 
attaching themselves to
pelage, clothes, those getting too close
Fruits of misfortune
sprouting after life-altering loss
choosing to scatter bits of courage
like seedlings for hope:
blackberries blackberries blackberries.
I chose risk
to start over somewhere new
eventually, you
queer miracle
shucked from oyster
repeating in every color
each sound
endless mornings
the softness, newness
container of connection
a vessel-spilling-rainbows
painting over recall
what once was
stale greys
shallow yellows
in lustrous hues
Why mention rainbows again
if only for the sake of honoring
storms that came before?
Why mention your eyes 
unless to say 
I no longer quell my desire 
to be seen in them?
Their reflection - that pearl,
already shines back all rainbows. 

    	Golden Shovel after “Twenty-One Love Poems VIII” - Adrienne Rich

I am writing you a postcard: I
wish you were here! Scrawled in desire, in want.

I am recalling the ways we love: mouth to
mouth, eyes seeking confirmation. Each time you go

a piece left behind. My breath catching on
frequencies still mutating and from

somewhere your whisper reaches me. Here
is where I wish to be: with

you. So even without, I am. With. You.
How I wish you were here!  Limbs fighting,

fingers asking, finally submitting to the
testaments found in temptation.

I am writing you a postcard; the only way I know to
tell you that to love you is to make

true a thousand dreams webbed of hunger. A
postcard to say, I would happily make a career

of offering myself to you, of
filling with pleasure the hollows of your pain.

What, of this Chaos, is Mine?

three quarters in palm

index to sleek:


                                                 mechanical whir of rotation

packaged disarray
to floor
to fingers
to be opened

                                   there is a beacon
                                   within the babel

                                                                                                                                                     hard to claim
                                                              if not purchased

            coins for the queer
     the singular
buzzed and bouncing

wall						to						wall

there is fervor to be relished

in 				the in-between
the 			non-belonging
spaces 			where the discarded linger 

      awaiting endorsement

is synonymous
with disapproval 
                          which looks
                          like denunciation 
                                                     which feels
                                                     like freedom 
                                                                         which translates
                                                                         to power

                                                                                                                                                      & so i buy it

the in-between
the non-belonging
spaces 				where the discarded linger
         awaiting endorsement
i endorse the discarded
the chaos
what is mine
take coins for the queer                                                                     
& relish in the fervor
of what is mine
what is now
this power
in being discarded

About the author:

Cee Chávez (they/them) is no longer interested in writing bios that reduce them to the identities they hold, their previous publications, their highest level of education, or the work they participate in for monetary compensation. The accolades they are proudest of exist in the love they have cultivated and are continuously surrounded by, which cannot be adequately conveyed in 100 words or less.

Photo by Robert Katzki on Unsplash