
So. After midnight, I devoured an egg
and bacon feast, toast, jam, cans
of ale to boot memory down, and to give
myself support I poured ale
over top of my head and welcomed my kind
to break sausage and pancakes
against their hunger. Before light, I chased sleep
with shots and woke up marooned
in a fine leather cocoon that boiled off
my fur to reveal skin so fine it is in love
with its own sleekness and charm, the skin,
which loves its newness, its fresh legs,
its hip strength, its nuanced mind; the body
and I loved everything I ate, and everything
I ate loved me back, strength came, a drunkenness
of another kind. When fire returned I knew
the language and wended into wind
and ash and listened for my name.
Cassandra Whitaker is a non-binary/trans writer from the rural south. Their work has been published in Little Patuxent Review, Kitchen Table Quarterly, The Daily Drunk, & Anti-Heroin Chic, among other places.