trini rogando

after Benjamin Cutler

Maybe we have always been apart. Maybe you have always
been silent. Yet poems are like this: metaphor turned magic.
Death rumbling to design, fate accepted as fact. If you could
name yourself, become something other than distance and

body, would you? Do stanzas in bright heaven still inhabit
choice? I should have listened when you sung your gullet
to my soul, drowned me in starlight and named it divinity.
I’m sorry that I don’t know your will. Noise is nothing now,

only a tremor. Still I ache for glory—see, there is construction in
collision. These syllables spill out a spell. You might burn me for
sin, but in the ink of daydream, it is quiet: my prayers crumble,
split to sate. Communion softened and baked in the bullet sun.

If the cosmos was crushed, maybe our blessed lips would
fit like they used to: touch melting dust to dust to dust to

Trini Rogando is a junior from Virginia. If she’s not scribbling down a half-formed poem, you’ll most likely find her procrastinating on physics homework, sobbing over well-written queer narratives, or sleeping. Her twitter is @triniwashere.