Gavin Yuan Gao holds a BA in English and Creative Writing from University of Michigan. He is a finalist in the 2019 Janet B. McCabe Poetry Prize and was recently shortlisted for the 2019 Thomas Shapcott Poetry Prize. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Cincinnati Review, New England Review, The Journal, Winter Tangerine, Sundog Lit, Hobart, and elsewhere. He lives and writes in Brisbane, Australia.
Facts I'm relearning today: fear is red
like the throat of a warbler. The moon
is only the softest muscle in the sky.
Rusty & peeling as they are, the lacquered
horses of our childhood will outlast our bones
but not our songs. Not this one. The one
we sang in the back of the silver pick-up
until we began to float — our hearts all helium
in rubber skin. The one we sang to unfasten
the river from the boat that we rowed into
a bloodshot sky, our lips knotted together
like balloon strings. Levitation is the first
principle of desire for boys who cling
to the flesh of other boys, believing love, like death,
empties the body into another. In the dream
where my limbs grow heavy as prayer, I sink
farther away from your hands & drown, the song
turning to nacre on my tongue. The needle is lifted
off the turntable. The dream has stopped playing
but I'm still singing.