Haley (they/them)

@talkinghyphae.bsky.social

761 Followers 1614 Following

Moss. Poems. Probably talking to your child about life and death. https://www.gameoverbooks.com/store/p/aurora-comes-online-haley-boss

The cover of Aurora Comes Online: poems by Haley Bossé. The background of the cover is a green and blue digitized photo of a human torso. The letters are bubbly and translucent like hard plastic
LEAVING URGENT CARE / HALEY BOSSE For Renée Nicole Good This is for every Fleck of glitter Exploded from the pocket Of my hoodie, An unexpected birth Of yesterday's excitement, New year hatching Six days late, Almost enough To keep me At the sink for hours Washing hope From the planes of my palms
Hopecore / Haley Bosse When I tell the doctor I was exposed to RSV, he puts on a mask. How I only have to search her name to rewatch Princess Diana hugging AIDS patients. Knowing that if I get sick someone will hug me. Knowing that the first time I had Covid, my partner hugged me from behind through a plastic tarp. The memory of both our masked faces seeding clouds into frigid air. The hutch of seeds sleeping in the lobby of the public library. The older man googling how to support my trans daughter in the public library. Replying All in the Zoom chat: still here!
A collage of lines of poetry over a photo of a nonbinary person pointing at the Grand Canyon
Transcrypsis 1. Camouflage In the era of rain, our only color was graphite with pebble, fossil, lead present in the fabric. When I woke, I searched the piles for the closest feel to dry and plastered it, still heaving, to my body. In the rain we learned a new degree of separation meaning there was none, just our skin, just the rivers of icy water flowing down through sticky strands of fur and over the chilled and porous landscape of our organs, only breathing in the water and out, a gill-less form of respiration.
In Which Water Becomes Audible First, they asked to see my secrets, sent a survey crew of hard accents, soft leather shoes to ask for my story in air quotes. Next came coffee, meal replacements, trucks, tools, pipes. They dug deep lines into their hands, they asked for time off, disability wages, didn’t get it, got deep enough to suck air out and left. Sometimes we forget a hole without a tongue can sing, but let me ask you something: did you come to stay? Rephrase: a hole is a hole is a place for something new to form and you seem caterpillared in your fuzz, liquefying body parts, fatigue. Come wrest with me, don’t worry, we will also be something to fill a hole. Don’t worry, you can be planted without harvest, fruitless tree or bitter root. seed yourself in rot displayed, rest your palm against my walls and push, touch nothing here but heat. Shortened due to alt text limit
Aurora Autofills Imagine me Plumish Practiced Pixie Cut Pompadour Imagine me Buzz Cut Buzz Kill Blunt Hand Deep Pour Imagine me How I Alwaysneverwas— Pink, imagining Playdoh Catdog Crossword Imagine Crossdressed Primprancing Catwalk Imagine me Beaming Imagine Beamed Up Spacewagon No-man Solo Imagine me Extraterrestrial Terrastructure Imagine me Terrible Imagine Waving and Window, imagining Everywhere and Imagine Me There. Don’t Imagine Forget.
The cover of We Are Mermaids by Stephanie Burt. Three mermaids with colorfully patterned tails float among sea creatures.
A photo of the cover of The Amputee’s Guide to Sex by Cy. Weise. The author credited on the cover is Jillian Weise. You can see the photographer’s reflection in the glossy black cover and their thumb holding the book.
The cover of Meltwater: Poems by Claire Wahmanholm. The cover is a photograph of the deep blue meltwater between two white glaciers. The water splits the cover.
The cover of Transgenesis by Ava Nathaniel Winter with a dried orange petal half-covering the Eugene Public Library barcode. The cover is an abstract blue, green, orange, and pink pattern that looks like oil on water.
A photo of a snail stretching out its antenas and head to look at the three figures on the cover of Togethering by Rose Zinnia. The figures on the cover are braiding each others hair while looking at flowers.
A photograph of Victoria Chang’s book The Trees Witness Everything with trees visible behind the book.
Cottonwood fluff on a sidewalk dotted with dewdrops
Lyd Havens Body, Aubade, Linen, Litany Published by Grist
Poem titled unnameable creature by Mai Hindawi
A screenshot of a poem called Hearth Touch
A small, red chapbook with the title “The Do-It-Yourself Guide to Fighting the Big motherfuckin’ Sad” filling the cover and the author’s name, Adam Gnade, in the lower right corner.
A screenshot of a poem and collage published by Paranoid Tree
A non-binary person stands on a tall stool next to a large charcoal drawing. The drawing consists of marks made by hands and feet. Next to the drawing, photos of charcoal covered hands, feet, arms, and legs are displayed on the wall
Screenshot of a submissions page. Two submissions are labeled, “rejected” and a third is labeled, “rejected, but with some love”
Screenshot of a poem called, “Open Wide”
A screenshot of a poem called “in a world that cares / for the unidentified woman / found by my childhood home”
A screenshot of a poem called, “If +Then”
Two pages of a book with a snake and a poem titled “m al wh er e” printed across them.
A person stands on a log on the beach next to graffiti that says, “trans joy.”
Poem: In a world that cares for the unidentified woman found by my childhood home
A screenshot of the following poem: How We Go for Haley Gabriella Feldmann How the tiny paper circle guarding the bottom of the candle has, by design, holes to let the candle in. How I tried to let the candle in. How some years the candle can’t touch me where I go. How some years we can’t touch them where they go. How some years there are birds with them where they go. How some years there are squirrels with them where they go and bioluminescent algae spreading their message across the surface of the universe. How their light penetrates every plane of existence. How ours puddles at the bottom of a stone amphitheater and leaks into the cracks between bricks. How I leak into the bricks and don’t break. How our trans bodies hurt but don’t break. How some of us hurt until we break. How we break. How our bodies break against the shore, here alive and spinning, here water-tossed and gone. How the wax from this candle pools impossibly in the shape of a dew drop. How I tremor slightly in the cold but also because I want the wax to fall. How the wax falls down the side of the candle in blues and pinks and purples. How it cools at the edge of its own light and spills over the paper guard. How it trickles through the holes. How it runs down my fingers. How it burns. How burning, it makes me a part of itself. How my thumb seals itself into the candle. How I never let it go. How it never lets me go. How I go into the night. How the night lets me pass. How I pass through gates and intersections. How the drunk men watch me pass. How I pass into the safety of my car. How I worry at this passing. How I pass this worry between my fingertips. How I worry my frozen fingertip. How I worry my frozen fingertip won’t reheat. How I bite through my frozen fingertip. How it melts along my tongue. How the wax enters through my mouth. How it never leaves.
The word “voidspace” in write text on a black background.
A screenshot of the submission guidelines available at the provided link