I Used to Have Green Thumbs

By Seth Wade

Fat, wrath, cobwebs in gin: splashed
hamburger grease burning our arms as we
thrashed to beats of Sting, of KISS—

outside, the lilacs
barked, You
are not
a man. 

I chewed fried rhubarb, then. Gambled with
wishbones on windowsills. Painted, because
I couldn’t hunt. Once, we kissed by the
backdoor and ignored the howling tomatoes.

School bullies shoving me down stairs.

My face smashing the wall.

Grit from bits of broken teeth on my tongue.

Lonely walks home through those grass-
gravel alleys. 

Cornstalks shivering,
squeaking out,
Repent! 

That scratch of your beard like pond scum
tickling up my neck.

Atone for what?

Penance is just masochism in drag.

Yet I weeded my habits and wilted under
pressure. We stopped. I fled. Forgot. I’m
sure you did, too.

Breath like dung piled high in a silo.

Today my indoor cactus died and left a
suicide note and—

oh, how I knew I loved men
because they scared me.

About the Author

Seth Wade is a philosopher in the ethics of technology. You can read his fiction and poetry in publications like Strange Horizons, McSweeney’s, Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, Hunger Mountain Review, and elsewhere. He is also a Pushcart Prize nominee. You can follow him on X: @SethWade4Real or Instagram: @chompchomp4u or Bluesky: @sethwade.bsky.social