Anthony Aguero

I Would’ve Done Anything

I would’ve done anything because it’s love, right?
I would’ve clipped my peaches in quarters and
fed them to the parrots hoping they’d mimic
their sweetness.
I would’ve sucked his dick because he asked
and because that is romance.
I would’ve stomped the ground, shoes and all,
just to recognize how my body rises against his
when anger is all that we have left.
I would’ve taken off his shirt and made it sensual.
I would’ve spoken into the fan’s spinning blades
in hopes it got my point across.
I would’ve bottomed and I’d declare it unforgettable but
I would’ve known the truth and let my shoulders
slouch. I’d call that love too.
I would’ve traced my index finger
along the crease of his crotch and he’d have gone crazy.
I would’ve put that same finger across my naval, then stomach,
and say This is where I’m empty.
I would’ve said Action and now we’re in a movie,
and I’m Drew Barrymore because isn’t that irresistible.
I would’ve bitten into the already bitten peach
hoping I could come across more sweeter;
more in place; more just right; more body ready and willing.
I would’ve read him some telling poetry.
I would’ve softened my edges.
I would’ve handed the knife over and said Aqui mismo,
but the power would have gone out and
I would’ve been reminded, again, of powerlessness.
I would’ve never allowed him to advance a few spaces.
I would’ve pointed to my chest and said Empty and Fill, but
I would’ve been allowed to not sexualize that for a moment.
I would’ve done anything but didn’t.
I would’ve flapped my wings and fluttered off.
I would’ve reminded myself over and over and over
that which I did not deserve.
I would’ve used absolutes sparsely, almost never.
I would’ve said My body, my body, my body.
I would’ve allowed my body to reject his hand
over my mouth. I would’ve done anything.

The Leaves in the Trees Are Looking a Lot Like Shadows

Someone says
          Chemically-induced psychosis
Under a hush;
       in a whisper; and suddenly,
I am vexed
     because the leaves
in the tree
             are looking a lot like
Upon further inspection
              It was just a man            
                      with a blow-torch
         staining glass

perched on a branch.
              But a breeze
                     swept through,
              And gave shape
to a wheezing-siren.
                            I bawled and whimpered.   
       and                        pleaded           
                                    for it to stop.
                        It was like this
         often of the time:
this becoming
       and unbecoming
                     of small,
insignificant tragedies.
          Another interruption
                of the leaves
beckons me to peek
Look here
   The minotaur
with starry-eyes
        huffs the scent of my skin
and rejects
             my loss
                               of sanity.
Then it’s a face
  and a palace
            an endless maze
and we’re in hell.
And I’m spitting
      myself from myself.
                    A gust of wind
            blows through,
                           and I am vexed.
A whisper,
                an urgent hush
asking how to get off this tree.

Busting a Boyfriend Out of Glendale Adventist Hospital: Psych Unit                                                               

And this didn’t really happen,
of course,
But I imagined it
the entire hour I sat across
       From him.
From him —               stripped raw, languid,
        his words scrawling across
               the cold-surface of a table.

I leap across,
  like a tiger to a dove,
                     and attempt to force
      a living-river,
breathing and rushing
and lungs conflating
with the water we’ve provided
each other,
      right into my arms —
what a fool I am.

The crook of his smile,
     crescent moon,
          in its effort to sway each vowel
escaping such wanting tongues —
                One more sweet dance,      
           my love,
and I’ll have you out of here.

    It is hard not to feel
the effect of his river
into my open mouth:
    the sound of a conjoined thirst
not a soul can slake.
     His water is in my arms,
  and I’m a fool.

I am carrying,
    or attempting to carry,
          his dripping body
from outside this place
   with only a frozen lake for a table.

     But I’m a fool,
                    to think Savior.
Only the two of our bodies,
       can influence the dance
  of the sea,
         but I’m a fool
                because I know,
              I know
I’ll have to leave the roar of us.


Anthony Aguero

Anthony Aguero is a queer writer in Los Angeles, CA. His work has appeared, or will appear, in the Bangalore Review, 2River View, The Acentos Review, The Temz Review, Rhino Poetry, Cathexis Northwest Press, 14 Poems, Redivider Journal, and others.