By Sage Agee
My chest leaks liquid sentiment.
Sustaining another life sometimes
means forgetting my own.
There is darkness in pumping white
milk from a chest on lease.
I can’t wait to return it to the hospital room,
nipples and all.
My doctor says I can start
testosterone in ten months—
when I am an independent country
tethered only by treaties
an agreement to continue to grow their food.
My hormones read my texts,
and overcharge my system
with what makes me bleed Jupiter’s Storm.
I stare at my Great Red Spot
knowing what this could mean
if I don’t choose a new birth control method soon.
My bathroom’s trash can
is filled with hidden messages,
I spend the night scrubbing blood
from thick material that covers me up
breathable enough.
The search bar pulses:
“Why is my baby’s poop green?”
“What are the easiest seeds to grow in Oregon?”
“Whose land do I occupy?”
“Whose body was I born into and are they missing it?”
When will my chest
stop fucking
leaking?
Sage Agee (they/them) is a queer, nonbinary poet and parent living in rural Oregon. They are currently inspired by the works of Billy-Ray Belcourt and the unbelievable evolution of their brand new baby, Otto.
