Allergy Test on the Car Hood

Tay’s grin reflected on the metal lining the school driveway—
her teal braces, brackets glowing in harsh sun.
She convinced me to skip. She always
did. She said, pen poised in left hand:
“Mr B’s so dull—cmon, skip with me,”
and I scampered behind her to her car.
She wanted to be an aesthetician. Or a nurse.
Would practice on me. On the Honda hood,
silvered by fresh scrapes, the cloth seats inside splitting
open like her mouth when she said my name.
She wrapped her palm around my wrist. Used safety pins
in the glove compartment. Pricked me gently,
like she was tying little knots in my skin and
I was coming together completely. Clicked
her tongue against her teeth as she worked. Sometimes,
so close to my ear I could hear
spit fizzing in her mouth. Sometimes,
her noises of concentration bended into a melody,
the red marks would dance on my arms, bowing to her pin
raised like a conductor’s baton—my body
contained in blemishes, in scratches splotching
new territory. I always reacted
perfectly. True example of allergy. She made me
shiver all over, tingles crawling up my back like cat claws,
and I imagine if Mr. B or some other teacher saw they would’ve stopped
us—we were ragged and giggling, we looked suspect
for sure: twin foundlings cross-legged on car hood.
But still. Never wanted her to lift her hand from me.

At the open mic, watching you:

Alana Dunlop

I wanna be like you I wanna be
friends with the scrappy kids
who vandalize stop signs and get
trashed at queer karaoke
and open-mouth sob at the open mic.

I wanna be like you I wanna have
a bite mark that left a weird scar
on my neck, stubble dotting my scalp,
a scribble tattooed on the soft part
of my arm,
a fuck-you to having flesh.

I wanna be like you I wanna get
fucked with a strap-on from Amazon
(Jeff Bezos watching us from above, like if
God were a pervert)
I wanna scream like a banshee at the good
parts, when the plastic mass is in me
and I feel really full.

I wanna be like you and your friends
I wanna dress weird and be proud of it
I wanna wear hand-me-downs from
the drag queen who skipped town.
I wanna wrap my hands around
the heart of meaning,
bump shoulders and cigarettes.
I wanna live like my life is in danger
I wanna feel like everywhere I go heads explode
and I wanna be really queer. So queer
people notice it in me. So queer
I don’t have to wonder how
to say it, poke it into conversation like
a sharp corner or a pig on a skewer
or the metal metro grate rubbed
dull from footsteps.

I wanna be like you
and how you have your claws
around freedom.
I watch you juicing it,
licking the pit,
onstage you’re eating everyone’s eyes.

I want to live in that place where things happen
and I want to happen, too.
I want to be uncovered, like a skull in the ground,
then buried, packing the dirt back on the bone.
I want to be recognized
like the white of a nun’s thigh,
having never been exposed,
in the moment the robe slips
and the skin is baked in light.
I want to be tender
and naked and I want to know your secrets.
I want to be destroyed, skewered with a pool cue
when I’m looking around the room
feeling moved, feeling like maybe you saw
me and my leg twitch at the end of your lines, at your
breathy thank you into the mic.
And maybe you saw me watching you,
wanting to know you, twisting
in my chair trying to emulate you, wanting
what you have even when it’s hard, wanting
that delicious slice of something else.

Alana Dunlop is a writer based in Montreal/Tiohtià:ke. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Room, THIS Magazine, Contemporary Verse 2, and Yolk Literary, among others. She is currently working towards her MA in Creative Writing at Concordia University. Find her at alanadunlop.online.