So when I said once every two weeks, I lied. Let’s say once a month!

I’m very excited to have my second guest contribution this week — more on that later/below. If you’d like to contribute to a future “issue,” just shoot me an email by responding to this email.

First up, my own poem this week, which was inspired by a prompt in a workshop I’m currently taking (thanks to Carolyn Marie Souaid, the workshop leader, for the inspiration).

“Long-time” “fans” of SGP might be able to figure out to which photo I’m referring in the poem below — it’s been featured in a previous issue ;).

What Was I Doing New Year’s Eve?

I wish you’d seen the photo,you’d know what I meanwhen I sayI’ve never been more me,when I tell youI wish I had still that sparkly goldhat, too big for my little head, that Iwish my baby teeth had never fallenout, even the canine stained by cranberryjuice, that I wish every NewYear’s Eve could make my eyesshine like that, shine like the hat, did Imention the hat?, shine straight intothe lens, outshine the fancy potteryin the background, distract from my littlefist, clamped as tight as it is now, my nailsdigging the same groove in one of the linesof my palm, my nails cut short and roundstill, always with scissors, but not with mymother’s mother’s scissors, I lost them on a trip,and not by my mother, but she still would, if I let her.

I wish you’d call my mother,she’d bring the photo andshe’d cut my nails.

SGP’s guest contributor this week is Brian O’Neill.

Brian O'Neill is a Montreal-based writer and teacher. His work has appeared in Event, Plenitude, and subterrain. You can find him on Instagram @bconeill and on Twitter @brianconeill.

I’ve had the pleasure of being in a number of workshops and writing groups with Brian, as well as of calling him a friend! His fiction writing is amazing (click the Plenitude link in his bio above for a spooky and sexy story), as is his poetry, which I’m honoured to feature here.

This somewhat ekphrastic poem is inspired by both Frida Kahlo (specifically her Wounded Deer) and Sylvia Plath, who were rough contemporaries. Brian’s reading of his work adds to the experience, so don’t forget to listen!

Arrowsby Brian O’Neill

Arrows in your hand and quiverI could charge at you with my antlersstampede over the broken branchesI could retreat to the denser woods orrun to the beach, where there are no obstructionsto my swift sprintMy doe eyes look directly into yourstransfixed by your tweed flap capyour raised armthe glint in your eyesWho could resist a brute like you?

Arrows piercing my bodymy hind legs, my back, my ribs, my neck, my heartUnpanicked, I remain plantedin the naked clearingThe stormy sky will clear before longyet too late

Such is my fateI gave myself to youthough I saw the trophies on your walland your satchel full ofarrows

Will you mount my head atop your mantle?Will you barbecue my tender meat,marinating it in red wine and olive oilwith dashes of garlic and thyme?Will you skin my hideto use as a rugand carve my vertebraeinto horns and flutes and drums?Or will you sharpen my bones with your bayonetto make more arrows?

Thanks for reading and/or listening and/or sharing and/or subscribing!

Don’t forget to reach out if you’d like to gaily contribute.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit somegaypoems.substack.com