3 Poems by Alex Vigue

Museum; Verb


I build a museum

I am an object in the museum

I musée around the house

tripping over coins I no longer remember

the origin of.


in my museum I spell out

apologies in the blue dust that

has accumulated from my skin


I shift my body, a cliff rattling

erosion, the colluvium, the ghost’s



Every movement, every collectable,

each find, not treasures, only

musaic acquisitions, speckled mosaic

of fingernails, silver, and a multichromatic

of stains.


I museum myself, stuffed behind

glass globe, taxidermy eyes super glued

to my eyelids

             an awakening of greetings

                           a supplication to echoed footsteps

             a haunting in reverse


I’m so queer, I wish I was Sarah Paulson


blonde, long-faced

                                        more like my mother than I can ever look


tasteful mole,

                           musical lisp— at least I share that


tapered paper doll, a dress slipped on my shoulders will never fit right

I will continue to try


my mother told me I was a performer, I wish I could act and become

                           ten thousand different people like Sarah Paulson

but I’m stuck as this one, one that I can at least change now and again


doom isn’t such a frightening word when you realize the heat of an ambitious hand

can change prophecy as easily as a nickel mood ring




Yes the tears come

out like juice and sugar from the fruit—

the skin thins and breaks and rips, there are

laws on this Earth and we live by them.” – Sharon Olds, The Feelings


This is all dried fruit peels

this vibrating cartography of gasping blue

and grunting red


shrinking peach lump bod

             meat all parched

             and pit anxious

             from tightening



the skin can’t unstretch

the cheek hairs can’t ungrow

ingrown red welts shudder

in the indigo swelter


the law of the earth is

every corpse still carries a seed

the law of abundance is

every corpse is shelter and nutrient

and every love cannot be lost


this is all dried fruit flesh

this is all and it is plentiful

Alex Vigue is a queer poet from a small town in Washington State. His debut Chapbook, The Myth of Man was published by Floating Bridge Press. You can find him on Twitter @Kingwithnoname and you can find links to his works at alexvigue.wordpress.com.