Max Stone

Ungodly, aching for a while.
Why isn’t this sufficient?
Little sips of pain.
I knew how freely the cold air
would let him hold me.
Kept shoulders hunched,
holding myself as grudge.
This evening my body could drop
like a turkey vulture from the sky.
Transient scavenger: it’s the family bird.
We see them all the time.
My eyes move like
a spiral of insects in the grass.
It’s so quiet I hardly feel desire.
Watermelon frosting from the cupcake
still on his lips,
he’s whispering in my ear.
Inside me a nest of live wires.
Pinky promise not to tell anyone,
but something happened
behind the Monument.
A shattered night,
a left-field shadow, a red moon.
Mellow nights leave me wanting
a cavalcade of chaos
charging through my room.
Just outside of Lincoln’s stony gaze,
is this better?
Skin cracks voice cracks, stressed earth.
Fecund soil, brutal desire.
The tallest obelisk still lives in america,
we do love our phallic symbols.
I’m a stranger with popsicle lips
bitten bloody, watching the time
change on a looney tunes watch.
Holding hands at the train station,
harsh light. Midnight isn’t romantic.
Regal regrets, sipping cyanide in bed.
Candied ginger brought as peace offering.

About the Author

Max Stone is a first-year poetry candidate at the University of Nevada, Reno. He was born and raised in Reno, but has lived in various places. He began his undergraduate career playing soccer at Sierra College in Rocklin, CA, transferred to Queens College in Queens, NY, and landed back in Reno to finish earning his bachelor’s in English with a minor in Book Arts and Publication. He’s writing for all the lonely queer kids out there who are trying to understand themselves and find connection.