When You Tell Me To See a Doctor I Decide I’m Not Sick
When you tell me to see a sex-therapist on the basis
of my low sex-drive, I go out & inspect moss instead.
I interrogate how much it needs out of another’s body.
I go out & forget mine: eat a whole break-fast of cloud-
milk & sun-yolk & potatoes I pull right from the ground.
I clean my plate. I float fat & happy on the silver
river, contemplate weightlessness. I go & build myself
a library. I don’t fill it with any books to educate you.
Then I focus up. I grab my body back from the ether
of neglect. I meditate on it: each individual part.
Carpals to metatarsals. I learn how to love my clavicle.
Under the surface of a mirror-pond, bluegills bicker
with their boyfriends over more basic bullshit than identity.
I wonder if their blue cheeks blush up red
with anger. I wonder about classification based on body.
I don’t use asexual because I don’t want to identify
as anything-sexual. I want only to be called by my name.
Camille Ferguson is a queer poet living and working in Cleveland, Ohio. Camille recently graduated from Cleveland State University, where she received the Neal Chandler Creative Writing Enhancement Award. Her work is featured or forthcoming in Drunk Monkeys, Okay Donkey, Flypaper Lit & Zone 3, among others. Follow her on Twitter @camferg1.