Coqui by Anna Lee

How can I concentrate when my left
hip is an unattended campfire?

My whole body’s unseasonably warm.
The air is so still, I can hear the neighbor

dare his dentures with a cob of corn.
This morning, his prized hibiscus bloomed

redder than a baboon’s raw hindquarters.
I was tempted to tuck a bud behind my ear

like the gal in South Pacific, who washed a man
right out of her hair. I’ve washed a few

out of mine. Even the one who laid me down
gentle as hand-blown glass. He loved me so
completely, he moved into my apartment and died.

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Max Wheeler (@mxwheels) is a trans writer and teacher from Oakland, CA. His work is forthcoming or can be found in Gulf Coast, trampset, Astrolabe, Beaver Magazine, and elsewhere. His short story about a snail was included in Best Small Fictions 2024. He is currently living in the Sonoran Desert, pursuing an MFA at Arizona State University and making friends with the cacti and the birds.