Aden Neumeister | Poetry

Die, Sick, Love

I am trying to love
the queerest body
I’ve ever been.

I see sickness through and through.
It glistens
or goes dark.

I said to my partner yesterday, I want to die.
He said do you want to go to the hospital.
I was confused.

Summer is acting like winter,
fall leaves in the spring.
And I don’t want to die.

Give my body cobalt blue.
Drip it out at an angle above
my brain.
Brush it onto my bulging disk
and straight through the hole
punch in my labia.

I am forced to look for other hues;
the opposite end of the sky.
My body gardens under this light
and for that I thank god.
I have a body that speaks
I have a body that
I have a body

When it stops
and fish swim in my lungs
bury me on Fern Street
in the Jewish cemetery
if they’ll still have me.
It’s right around the block
from our house.



Aden is a psychologist in private practice in Oakland CA.  She currently has a piece in the Fall 2017 TQ review from Damaged Goods Press.

2018-02-28T17:26:03+00:00 February 27th, 2018|