I drive
and remind myself

that the cars around me aren’t bodies.
The pot holes open up

in the freeway—
gritty mouths:

they talk about destruction
and the way stone’s teeth

will fall out under these knees
no—no not bodies just vehicles

just green color metal—
just headlights—never eyes.

Out of panic
I feel for the skate inside me—the ray
that gliding flatness—

a soft CD murmuring along
some ocean floor.

You have to understand
I needed to become that creature
to survive—

I felt the water’s kind weight
as it pressed me

and I was reminded of how
I tell you to get on top of me
and not worry about
putting your whole weight on my body.

I feed on the bottom—
tongue to asphalt—slide beneath
the rows of traffic.

Remind myself that I’m driving
in a car alone—
I’m driving in a car alone
and one is there to remind me
to be human—just long
enough to get home.

I say farewells to the other
skates and reveal in my grey skin
one moment more—

breathing through the mouths
of all the pot holes—

a steering wheel
a horn moaning—
a dissolving whale


Robin Gow's poetry has recently been published in POETRY, the Gateway Review, and tilde. He is a graduate student at Adelphi University pursing an MFA in Creative Writing. He is the Editor at Large for Village of Crickets, Social Media Coordinator for Oyster River Pages and interns for Porkbelly Press. He is an out and proud bisexual transgender man passionate about LGBT issues. He loves poetry that lilts in and out of reality and his queerness is also the central axis of his work.