If I Could, I Would Have Named Myself Honeysuckle
by Robin Gow

after the bush a block away,
                 and how Mom and I pinched
the necks of the white flowers
                precise                  thumb      finger
sweet     water      full mouths.

I was hungry for a name
                like that,
like something to suck down quickly,
                 like yellow word,
like bugs humming,
                like a tick ambling
behind my ear and planting
                 its obsidian head,

a jewel dunked in blood.

Back at home,
we pulled the tick out
                with tweezers and
I told Mom I was afraid of
                the honeysuckle bush.
She said next time
we’ll check for ticks
                     before leaving.

Lying awake, in bed,
I thought of that plant mess
                 live green            entangled
                 in the waists of trees
                                by the side of the road
                 choruses of stems
                 dripping               damp tongues
and I decided that if people
               called me honeysuckle
                              instead of Sarah

I would have a kind of
                inherent wildness,
an absence of fear

a sopping fire,
                I'd be sugar teeth,
                                a grit girl,

a head to be plucked from
               scarlet creek.

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Robin Gow's poetry has recently been published in POETRY, The Gateway Review, and Tilde. He is a graduate student at Adelphi University pursuing an M.F.A. 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 and 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. ​A 2019 Pushcart Prize nominee, Gow's poem can be found in Issue 19 of Glassworks.