‘Tchaikovsky’s Click’, ‘When Does a Boy Become a Snarling Canine?’, & ‘You’re Officially A Woman’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Tchaikovsky’s Click

Fifty-fifth of Swan Lake, Op.20, Act II

Realization settles in the pit of the stomach

                        caressing in a searching manner

                                    in a dreadful spirit —

mix it carefully with two fingers

                        gouge them into the eyes

                                    staring into the mirror.

“Who is he?”

He tries to recall the features that held his gaze mere seconds ago

                                                                                    “I cannot recall my own face.”

He recognizes himself enough times to hold them in the palm of his hand.

“I recognize myself

            I slam a door

chunk a remote

            yell a profanity.

the click in my stomach.

I recognize myself

            I stare at a wreck on the highway

                        pick raw at a hangnail

                                    fantasize about choking—

                        the click in my stomach.

I recognize myself

            in my hands                not my face.

                        They had just gotten into a fight.

                                    That’s what I hope it was.

                        the click in my stomach.

I recognize myself

                        in the carmine and the wine;

            they dance, battered in holy matrimony.

                        the click in my stomach.

I recognize myself and I don’t know if I like it or not.

I recognize myself

                                    in the pupil reflection,

                        a heart to heart

                                    a knife and a hand connection.

                        the click in my stomach.

I recognize myself

                        the weight of me sinking me deeper.

                                                I wouldn’t find a love like this ever again.

                        the click in my stomach.

I recognize myself and I don’t know if I like it or not.

Before I know it,

the click is gone.

I recognize myself

            yearning for return

                                    realization that time stood between the next click.

            whether I like it or not.”

You Are Bare, Let Me Dress You

You can search your home

for something you will not find,

in your full cupboards,

in your wedding beds,

in the palms of your neighbor.

You are bare. Let me dress you.

Without me,

you will find slashes

in every which way upon your back.

It’s your fault for not letting me dress you.

I will gift you soothing rain to rinse your skin

because I am kind and you are bare.

You will pick your scabs,

keep yourself raw and willing

so I may cover them with my own flesh

until you have to pry the skin from yours.

You are bare. Let me dress you.

Will you tense up

or will you not be able to stop yourself from squirming from my grasp?

Why are you shaking?

Stop squirming.

You are bare. Let. Me. Dress. You.

You yearn to be seen.

You yearn to be consumed.

Let. Me. See. You.

Let. Me. Consume. You.

You are bruised and you are battered.

You. Are. Bare. Let. Me. Dress. You.

I will come for you when the time is right,

when you least expect it,

when you least deserve it,

when you don’t even have grey hair yet,

when I need you,

because I’m me and I can do whatever I want.

But for now,

let me dress you.

When Does a Boy Become a Snarling Canine?

When a boy become so hungry

he can’t help but bare his teeth

and threaten the throat of his mother

When a boy no longer quivers

in the face of danger and discernment

and runs to hide behind his father’s leg

When a boy begins to use his pinky nail

to scrap out the muscle of his mates

from the cracks of his bleeding gums

When a boy’s stomach is filled

with any who let him sink his teeth

but time goes on

When does hunger return and only his mother remains?

“You’re Officially A Woman”

I can’t go into that store anymore,

walk in like it’s no big deal,

grab femininity by the twenty-count

and pay an absurd $10.49 just to feel like shit.

Mountains upon mountains of lost opportunity will drown,

and I’ll be left with “a simple stomach ache”

and a craving for something I know isn’t good for me.

Why couldn’t He have just put me in the right one in the first place?

Blood will pour down my leg,

seep and stain into my skin.

Boyhood is slipping through my fingers

and is caught by a heavy flow cotton.

Heat will make me rip off my clothes in the middle of the night,

Your divine creation stranded,           searching for cool relief.

Tears will fill my ears as I am reminded

of what You chose not to give me.

No matter how my clothes hang from my body,

no matter how flat I can get my chest,

no matter how many times he calls me his darling boy,

the blood still remains.

No matter if manhood presents itself on my face,

no matter if I change my name,

no matter if they finally call me their son,

I’ll still have blood stains on my legs.

Jesus Christ,

I CAN’T FUCKING BREATHE IN THIS THING.

Richie Magnia is a student at the University of North Texas, studying Creative Writing and Media Arts. While primarily working as a screenwriter, he got his start in short fiction and poetry. Working in various genres, he is able to meld them together to create cinematic prose and poetic cinema. Themes prominent in his work include: violence in men, cycles within families, and the connection between art and violence. Acting as president, he is the founder of UNT's Screenwriting Camp and has been featured in the North Texas Review, Mantis, and Wingless Dreamer. He can be found on Instagram @richiemagnia.