Myles Em Taylor

Aubade with Fake Blowjob

after Sam Rush


Perhaps fake is the wrong word, but there it is: Imitation.

Copy. Counterfeit. My dick is counterfeit. Sometimes silicone,

fingernail, or exhale. But in morning light, anything missing


is erased by sunbeam, maybe, or half-sleep stupor, eyesight

dizzied with lovelorn dreams.  My eyes close & my whole body

might be misremembered. Put the covers where I don’t want


to believe. The only un-lies in this room: you

& the light, and what, tell me, is the difference?

Your mouth & the sun? Illumination & creation?


Some people want us to change, & some people

show us what we want to be & how we have already

become it. Dick of halogen. Fluorescent silence.


The sheets, humility. The curtains, liars. The moan,

distortion. This town, sepulchre. Your spine, a vision.

The sun, marble. Your mouth, a sculptor. Your mouth,


a tool. Your mouth, a blade. Your mouth, white-hot

heat welding my and self together. Melt my two bodies

into one blinding shudder. Give shape to what I’ve named.


My body museum of empty frames. My body taxidermy

of the still-alive. My body, admittedly, small, but still all mine,

and you don’t mind. Your hair, my gravity. You, gravity.


You, everything the light tumbles towards. You tell me

afterwards that it was ethereal. As if the light

wasn’t all yours. The brightness stains in quiet.


Shadows stripe the little-known. You glow. You always

glow. You lightbulb a vision of myself, where your eyes

are everyone’s eyes. Where the heat comes with the light.






a car speeds the street all motor

& douchebag while I shuffle along

on the snowslip sidewalk hood

over my eyes & my brain says shit like

what if they were 5 seconds later &

3 inches to the left and now my brain

is fabricating a dramatic movie scene

and an obituary no one reads

because they put my birth name in it

so nobody can find it until a long series

of frozen grapevines erupt & now

everyone knows I must be a death wish

& wonders if I did it on purpose & what

a tragedy another trans death & my partner

is sitting statue-still on their big bed

& my mother is weeping in new jersey

by the time I get to my shitty-landlord

driveway I have found 5 more ways

to die & by the time I descend

the steps I have chosen my favorite

but by the time I am pulling the key

out of the doorknob I have decided

that I don’t want to die

& what a blessing,

to want to survive myself. To be trans

& still cautious. To take no time

staring at a road & asking it to kill me

so I don’t have to. What a blessing

to take each iced step lightly. To affix

my seatbelt. To overcook the eggs.

To walk this winding way for groceries

to nourish a self I want no part of

some days, but some days, I only stop

in the cold for one moment, and only

to look at the moon out early in the dusk,

and only because it looks good tonight.

Because I, amazingly, out in weather

fraught with small dangers, enjoy being alive.

Because my apartment is warm,

the futon welcoming, the moon out

of sight, but still outside.


Myles Em Taylor is a Writing, Literature & Publishing major at Emerson College. They are the Editor-in-Chief of the newly minted Corridors Magazine. They represented Emerson College at CUPSI in 2016 and 2017, and represented the Boston Poetry Slam at NPS 2017. You can find their work in voicemail poems, Freezeray Poetry, Beech Street Review, and at shows around the Northeast. They knit to stay zen and drink way too much espresso.


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