“Questgiver” & “Postcard from the Hellified Zone”
by Amy Marvin
Questgiver
Woke this morning hacking on
my phone at an email, the
University that did not pay does
not wish to pay further. I’m
less a protagonist and more
an exclamation looming over
my crown. I am not giving orders, I am
begging for a log update, a balloon full of
experience. The question isn’t when the scene
falls apart, but rather who the scene
falls apart on. Nobody doing the dishes
is an assignment of who must do the
dishes. My hair is rebellious when
I have been tearing on my pillow. Dust
indoors cannot be moved, they can
only be removed. Some of the books
do not remain in circulation. No vacuum
sucks enough to bridge this gasp.
Postcard from the Hellified Zone
Out of breath after a phone call I
feel like someone is crushing
me from the inside as I watch
the DOOMguy on the screen
chainsaw through another zombie.
That's inaccurate, because I am also
the DOOMguy, I have occupied DOOMguy
for the past few days. Philosophically,
would the DOOMguy be my boyfriend or
would I be my own boyfriend if I dated
myself, the DOOMguy? If I fantasize
the DOOMguy is holding my hand
in public, am I fantasizing about holding
my own hand? Is this what they call
autoandrophilia? Is this bisexuality?
Is this thing on?
When the estrogen runs out next month
and I have to detransition, I hope
to become my own DOOMguy:
a thicket of muscle and the smoothest, most
caressable brain, probably a much smaller
mask. I bet the DOOMguy breathes
deeper than I can manage,
and he gets to jump and swing
so much! which would be good
for my great depression this week.
Hoping the Hellified Zone has wifi
well enough for streaming but breaking
up any telecommute, maybe
a Pirate Bay or at least an Internet
Archive so I can take some lungs.
