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Wyvern Lit

from "Greyhound"

Poetry by Aeon Ginsberg



As a travelling artist returning is a question on the constant-past.
I’d love to believe that a thing is still as I left it, just for once,
but like that never happens. Things are in motion constantly.

I leave home and return
to a home, but it’s different.

I once left home and returned to a friend butt-ass
in my bed with a stranger, so I left again to return again
to the same thing, but different. Their ghost-sex stains.

Leave home and a bed frame and returned to a pile of wood,
which seems like a good metaphor for broken
cycles or upbringings, but there’s only so much absence
one can take, even if it makes the space seem that much bigger. 

People ask me how places were but not how I am
like there’s still travelling in this body.
I got a lot of mileage to these bones.

Yes, I do mean it when I say everything was fine,
the same way when I say that I am fine as well.

It’s like asking how I wear my dysmorphia
differently between Thursday and Friday.  

Casual Friday-dysmorphia is me at work shaking cocktails
because it makes what little breast I have feel like true breasts.

A body of movements breaking and rebuilding.
The ghost movement of my body as a pleasurable sight. 

I will not say that I too haven’t stained the rooms
of lovers with my absence, because I can’t.

My body moves toward what magnetizes it, and I let it.
It took me too long to learn the best way to love myself.

It’s taking me too long to learn the best way to love myself,
but I’ll keep trying

This isn’t just about me anymore,
this is about the movement of all bodies.
This can’t just be about me anymore rather,
there is so much more at stake then myself.

The body of the government polices
the body of the community which in turn
polices the bodies of the marginalized.
There are borders within borders.

Who is allowed to take a bus and not fear
that they won’t make their destination?
Gendered bodies, black bodies, bodies of color, disabled bodies,
queer bodies. Bodies against the government 

The body of the government is ruled
by the body of the money, which is true even if it isn’t.
Men buy their way into others safety and travel through
the poverty of the world, creating the poverty of the world.

My friend tells me that prisons should be abolished –
and I agree.
My friend tells me that everyone in prison should be rehabilitated –
and I agree.
My friend tells me that all of the police, and the guards, and the army
should be put into the prisons for twenty years after they are abolished–
and I cannot agree.

If it isn’t about power then what is it?
Replacing the prisoners with those who upheld them
will only make prisons continue, if they are open still
what is to stop someone from trying to use them, to profit from them.


Money moves through the body of people and all there is for me to grasp is myself. I am grateful to have the means to become myself, grateful to have the ability to move forward, to open up. The body of genders is one of expenses, why do you think there are so many anti-capitalist trans persons? My body, my gender, my movement, is against borders, against prisons, against its accomplices: money, power, civility. I’m told not to get off of the train or bus between Hamburg and Berlin, that it’s white supremacist territory, but also that it is beautiful.


There is nothing beautiful about territory run by white supremacy.
There is nothing beautiful about having to closet yourself
to survive a stint of transit. There is beauty in surviving,
but it is a type of beauty that is fleeting and fixed.

Once I entered a room feminine and felt wonderful,
before I entered a room hunted and felt prey, but
got to be prey because I was pretty so I should feel lucky.

Once I had a job that let me be who I am,
and then the job showed me if I were to be assaulted
I would be at fault for bringing that onto myself.
How lucky I would have to be to attract death.

Yet, that’s all we do as trans persons,
move from fixed point of safety to fixed point
until our ability to reach is diminished by something
someone would call                            luck.


The movement that runs tandem with containment is movement that will never allow me to be trans. The lawless state of transit has been both haven and prison. The movement from fixed point of safety doesn’t run on asphalt, but through time. This fixed point of clarity will be met with an abstract point of confusion.


I want to be on a bus or a train that takes me
to a fixed point rooted in persons.
I want to find the place
where the body of genders
becomes itself an abstract
point of clarity,
take me there Greyhound
take me there Amtrak
take me there roads.


Aeon Ginsberg (they/them) is a writer and performer from Baltimore City, MD. They're the author of chapbooks Until The Cows Come Home (Elation Press, 2016) and Loathe/Love/Lathe (Nostrovia! Press, 2017). Aeon is a Taurus, a barista, a bartender, and a bitch.