I hate unclean sounds: sloppy ones from

those who have the privilege of breathing

or eating like being alive is not a big secret to keep.

The nuns used to soak a washrag & force it

over the corners of my mouth after a meal,

hold the back of my head like a hook in the gills

while I went stiff & bucked,

why

can’t

you

act

like

a

lady?

I learned to lick my face & plate spotless.

Do everything through my nose, which cannot

say the wrong thing. I swallowed the coin of keeping

my mouth closed like the good neighbor girls

who were never sent out to play with bodies of

social tender. Imagine my gender

did not belong to the highest bidder.

Imagine I was known before I was collateral

for a good Catholic home. Imagine I believed

in being loved & heard by the same people,

that I am not some dykeboi who now dreams

of cutting their stomach fat straight off the bone

for a chance at getting misgendered

in the opposite direction. Then I might like

things to sound alive. I might sit

in the corner, jaw angled like a ladle,

& slurp up the leftovers of my meals

from my nailbeds, no longer afraid

of anyone noticing. Maybe then

they would all use the right pronoun.

Abhainn Connolly (they/them) is a trans and queer poet that splits their time between Drogheda, Ireland and the Pacific Northwest of the USA. Their recent work can be found in Oxford Poetry, Poetry Ireland Review, HAD, and more. Their debut collection DEADNAME will be released in 2023 with Write Bloody UK.