Sex+: Two Poems by Carson Sandell
Queer Awakenings Sextina
I was 13 when Bela Lugosi didn’t bite
John Harker’s neck. I imagined a lace
table-cloth swept to the floor. John’s back
pinned on oak by The Count’s cold hands.
early morning moans bleed
out of the TV. I tasted warm metal. my mouth
watered at 18, sludge sweet as red vermouth
slow dripped from Angela Franklin’s yellow fangs. I said bite
deep and her teeth felt a nerve’s fast bleed.
I tore her black lace
veil in two. we wore each half. I strong-handed
Stooge’s boombox off his corpse, blasted Bauhaus, back
when we could only dance back to back,
our first kiss lasted so long we cottonmouthed.
I dabbed a cotton ball with a hand-
some amount of Mom’s foundation, then frostbite
blue eyeshadow. the 10 year old urge to replace
my face with Glen/da’s. my rosacea bleeds
through makeup and bleeds
down the vanity drain after Mom's back-
hand. even post blending, it’s commonplace
to resemble Captain Spaulding. my mouth
hangs as I look in the mirror, Cenobite
pale. my current lover in leather, hand-
cuffs me to the bed. they stand over my body like a chandelier.
nails gash my gut open. they suck the bleed.
I moan, but I’m quieted by the arbiter
of pleasure, I flashback
to 8 when I smart mouthed
god in Sunday school. a priest placed
me underwater for 30 seconds, our fingers interlaced.
the rector said I should feel like sin was hand-
scooped out of me. instead, I mouthed
Mary Lou’s confession speech, like her and this bleeding
I love it. my lover comes back
up for air. the wound closes around their overbite.
Ghazal as Chris MacNeil
thank you for coming, are you fed father?
good! yes, I prayed for daily bread, father.
we’ve gone to every doctor, you’re my last
hope. I’m thirty grand in the red, father.
I don’t mean to waste your time
it’s just been hard since he fled, father.
I thought he would return, I guess
it’s easier to be wed than be a father.
he didn’t even call on her birthday
he has no shred of humanity, father.
I’m sorry, yes, she’s upstairs in her room
tethered to the bed like your forefathers
asked. I don’t want to bother you,
but it must be said father
she’s had no baptism, no christening.
have I misled her, father?
you’re right, I shouldn’t give into doubt,
dread is what kills the heavenly father.
do you want a coat? it’s cold in there. no?
I’ll be downstairs instead. I’m sorry father
I just can’t stand her vile tongue,
her words spread loud as grandfather
clocks. my god and the cuts on her face?
no child should look dead father!
About Carson Sandell
Carson Sandell (they/them) is a queer trans poet from San Jose, CA. They graduated from University of California Riverside with a B.A. in Creative Writing. Carson is a first year MFA Candidate in Poetry at San Diego State University. Outside of academics they are a Poetry Reader for Split Lip Magazine and Poetry Editor at Poetry is Currency. Most nights you will find them curled up watching a horror movie with a glass of wine.
