You preen before windows. Delighting in your new teeth, sprouting wherever they may—between your eyes or chittering down your chin. Soon, you will be rows of canines sharpened against one another. Soon all edges will be all that’s left of you. Side effects to the side effects. You read about this. Your voice deepens, as does your shadow. You become so dense owls follow behind, hunting stray cats in your night-wake. Once a cactus opened its crown behind you as you waited for the bus and a short-nosed bat took up residence in the pool of your shoulder. They said to expect swelling where your lymph nodes meet the air, that you may experience tentacles, fitful and insistent, squirming down your thighs, nuzzling under your clothes. Every morning there is a new hole—a mouth? blooming down your torso. They hum to you at night. Press your fingers into them: Thomas into Christ’s side. The skin under your skin is glittering, studded in patches of scales. It sings.

A white masculine of center person with short brown hair and glasses smiles at the camera. They are wearing a blue button up shirt, black pants, and brown shoes. They are leaning against a blue door frame.

M McDonough is a queer trans poet living in Phoenix, Arizona. They are pursuing an MFA in poetry from Arizona State University. Their work centers speculative poetics, trans horror/delight, humor and pop-culture. Their poems have appeared in Exposition Review, nameandnone, Defunkt Magazine, and elsewhere.