Razorback

By Magdalena Harlow

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i am well aware that the name belongs to a pig,
but my mind just cannot comprehend a name like that.

so descriptive, so dangerous, so allusive.
my mind pictures my lover with razors sticking out of every vertebra,

feel his warm, olive oil skin stretched cleanly across his back.
i find myself longing to be acquainted with his scapulas.

how natural it would be to slice myself every time i trace his spine,
feeling my own blades starting to grow alongside his.

everytime my sweet blood rusts, i find myself eager to return,
it’s always been so easy for me to allow pain and love to be interchangeable.

it’s even easier when the pain isn’t necessary.
i love nothing more than a man who lets me self-destruct without even batting an eye.

to love a Razorback is not poetic, not artistic, it’s not even love.
it is the kid who decided love was what he could do for men,

what he could become for men,
belittling himself to nothing but a blank canvas to be painted on

by everyone who ever owned a brush.
so when he’s been cut and his fingertips are gashed,

it is no surprise he mistakes the blood for crimson ink.
over the years, i’ve learned how to illustrate a better picture,

ignoring the fact that every time i kiss a boy,
i remember my love will always be associated

with swine.

Magdalena Harlow is a midwestern poet who excels in the style of page poetry, who levitates towards poetic themes such as decay, yearning, and the complexities of gender. Along with poetry, Harlow enjoys oversized cardigans, gouache paint, and Japanese singer-songwriter, Mitski. You can find Harlow on Twitter @magdalenapoetry.

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Why we chose this piece: The voice, the diction, the imagery! All of it pops in this poem. The premise is unusual and intriguing, and Magdalena dives into the concept in a truly vivid and evocative way.