Logan unpacks needles, swabs, syringe, bandaid
I settle my knee against his thigh
As we sit on his Star Wars comforter.
He plays Elton John, tiny speakers
Alone, I track 26 minute walk
with sagging backpack
acorns to slow foot
fall, brief float
turns to stomp.
With cars’ isolating
wind and shifting curb along,
I reach my new pharmacy. I learn,
finally, the steps of self-injection.
We drive separately. Even
through Meghan’s usual stoicism,
she slips ticks of crossing rubber-toed converse.
I don’t want to interrupt her nerves.
Meghan wanders a quick smile.
We file into the concrete and window
striped building. Logan maybe talks
to her or I ask what type of shot she’ll do.
The small office contains us after pulling up another chair.
Keagan Wheat writes poetry on FTM identity and congenital heart disease. His work appears in The Acentos Review, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Kissing Dynamite, and more. Check out his interviews with Brooklyn Poets and Poets and Muses. They are the author of microchapbook, Come to the Table (Black Stone/ White Stone 2022); he has a forthcoming chapbook, Pressure Come Back through Bullshit Lit. Living in Houston, he enjoys collecting odd dinosaur facts and listening to many podcasts. Find them on social media @kwheat09.