by Gion Davis
Frozen Sea

Someone broke into the van and smoked

a menthol. Someone woke up inside the perfect

hangover. Someone dressed like a cowboy and went

to the pioneer village at the mall. Someone said Wyoming

is when the wind blows your hat off your head and you

have to go chase it. Someone was a better person than

poet and believed it was the other way around. Someone

filmed heart cells beating without a body. Someone wore

a persimmon colored sweater. Someone called it divorce

and someone else called it West Virginia. Someone came back

to bed smelling like coffee. Someone said I have to say something

and flipped off the car in the left lane. Someone thought

something was off-putting about the boy with the sunburnt

mouth. Someone was right the whole time and said nothing.

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Gion Davis is a trans poet from Española, New Mexico where he grew up on a sheep ranch. His second collection, Designated Stranger (Thirdhand Books, 2026), has been called an “of-the-moment but timeless Beat-style masterwork” in advance praise from Diane Seuss. For the past four years, he has been touring and performing poetry with a band called Clementine Was Right. He currently lives in Denver, Colorado.