Three Poems – Ollie Schminkey

wristbands

hospitals

it started as a small dot, no larger than a 12pt letter.
then it grew, the blind spot, to encompass
the space of my entire left eye, and i looked
in the mirror, saw a one-eyed creature and wondered
if this made me a myth. 

and no, i did not stay unseeing forever. i grabbed
some carrots and a kiwi and my sister drove me 
to the hospital, the buildings’ grey blur becoming just grey.

and then, i had to pee, and then, the women’s bathroom,
and then, the birth name, and then, the nurse asking
me if there’s any chance i might be pregnant, 
and all i wanted to do was take a splintering chomp
of my carrot and mutter
i ain’t so much as looked at a dick since the summer of ‘84
then wink, slice the kiwi, drink, the blind spot growing,
the nurse’s sweet baby face blurring into the fuzzy abyss

and then, the ‘FEMALE’ on my wristband, all caps, 
like, anyone could see that shit--  
what business did they have assuming my blood’s name

and the next day, after my vision returned,
my partner drove me to the eye doctor
when he asked are you friends? 
she said no, we’re dating
and he tried his best to look like he hadn’t just
shit himself, but i could smell him for the rest of the exam




one night (stand)

i climb on top of the girl another time,
my body foaming and the drink still slipping its way down
and she doesn’t ask to touch me
and i don’t think she wants to touch me
and i take her breasts in my mouth
and she moans sharp with my teeth
and she says i’m sorry i’m just so used 
to people who like to have their chests touched
and i say thank you, amen, for the disgust
that follows my own curdle
tumbling in the sheets of her body odor
someone else’s bed we could have stained
but instead kept our bodies nameless

and i don’t know if it was shame or if
my mouths simply stuttered too much
how i laughed, how i bit my tongues
how i did not take her in
how i tasted no blood




non-binary trans kid is born into the world teeth first

and everyone says well, shit. didn’t see that one coming.

the miracle is the blanket they hold at night is not the earth.

the miracle is the only thing they can’t stop is chewing their nails.

the miracle is they have never bloodied themselves into sleep.

the miracle is their hands are big enough to hold a bottle of pills
but too small to swallow them.

the miracle is four chin hairs.

the miracle is to be all womb and anti-mother.

the miracle is to swallow charcoal and shit out sky.

the miracle is they still have knuckles.

the miracle is they still have.

the miracle is they. 
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About Ollie Schminkey

Ollie Schminkey is a non-binary trans poet, artist, musician, and activist. They have competed at 6 national poetry competitions, and their debut chapbook, "The Taste of Iron," is published under Beard Poetry. You can find more of their work featured on Button Poetry, Upworthy, Write Bloody's anthology "We Will be Shelter," numerous radical trans zines, and their website: ollieschminkey.weebly.com. View all posts by Ollie Schminkey

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