'Nowhere near Pittsburgh, mid-winter' and 'Close to My Heart', by Jamez Terry

Nowhere near Pittsburgh, mid-winter

Is there – on your half-lit table –
a cigarette dissolving into an ashtray,
are there bagels in the freezer,
and would you heat one for me
if I drove all night
to wake you without warning?

Is there – in your half-sized bed –
room for one more body
if we press close in the basement’s dark,
too scared to touch each other,
too lonely not to,
satisfied just to hear each other breathe?

Is there – behind your half-laughing eyes –
a heart that could let me back in
after I stopped sending postcards
from wayside stops
and forgot how much I loved
the city streets that lead to your door?

I’m driving – halfway there –
looking for an answer,
a stale bagel, a cramped bed,
a reason not to leave this time.

Close to My Heart

I want to write you a poem
no romantic ballad
nor a blazing arrow
to set your heart afire
but a few sweet lines of almost-maybe-love
the kind of tender ambiguity
I have refined to an art

I want to write you a warning
a label that spells out the danger
of falling for a boy like me
of letting me fall for you
not because it would protect us
but it would prevent us from saying
we did not know

I want to write myself into
the corners of your life
carefully avoiding the center
feigning detachment
while I trace the shapes of your shoulders
and your jaw
until my fingers can find you
even after you’re gone

I want to write you a poem
so saccharine sweet
it will dissolve on your tongue
leave you licking your lips
to find the trace of me
but I hold my words close to my heart
knowing they are the thing
the only thing
that lasts

Jamez Terry is a queer and trans poet, novelist, zinester, parent, chaplain, and rabblerouser.  His poetry has mostly been published in DIY zines and spit from stages across North America.  His debut novel is forthcoming from Generous Press.  He lives in Alaska with his partner, two kids, and many fishes.

Photography by Erdem Orhan