Betsy Housten

Anatomy of a Handcuff

​Some Lovers Try Positions That They Can’t Handle:
an essential worker’s mnemonic to remember
the names of carpal bones. Pinned
 
behind a disobedient torso, wrists angle
in a manner unbecoming. State bracelets scrape
over scaphoid, lunate, triquetrum, pisiform –
 
this last the last to ossify, at the age of twelve,
mini-island at the edge of each hand, its prominence
commensurate to the size of the fight. Teeth
 
catch. Rivets ratchet tighter with every
attempt to wrench free. Some say the lock
can be picked but only if you practice for the day
 
they’ll haul you in, trapped in a paddy wagon
thinking trapezium, trapezoid, capitate, hamate,
words that sound like weapons, or shapes
 
you learned in grade school, when men in uniform
just meant it was dinnertime, bunch of uncles
knocking back beers, laughing too loud.

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Changeling

Once your human use dries up, travel to the forest outside the city. Pack light. What you need to survive, you will identify by discovery. Rest is a weapon. Good will never be simple. Mischief may include gender wanderlust, tendencies of defiance, chaotic shadows born from fears of belonging and boundary. Beware perils, but keep an eye out for magic. Cast frost and fire, charm animals, cure wounds. The elf moon has a thousand faces, wild with ethereal reward, freely glistening over silvery trees. Druid, rogue, sorceress, bard: dream a new dimension. Adventure together. Roll performance. Roll sleight of hand. Dodge the guardians of binary alongside other characters who have come this far.
 
This is an erasure poem. Source text: Dungeons & Dragons Player’s Handbook, version 5e
​

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Betsy Housten is a queer writer and massage therapist who earned her MFA at the University of New Orleans and makes her home in Brooklyn. Her writing appears in Autostraddle, Sundog Lit, Rogue Agent, Entropy and elsewhere, and has been nominated for Best New Poets, Best of the Net, and the Pushcart Prize.