by thomas hobohm
It’s me, Thomas on my knees to receive rush of the rotten fruit vision of the dusty plain come from above to punish this mahogany pew my palms and soles flow sap from the great gingko drown this nave in treacle brown put me under not gasping, rather seeing they say drowning is peaceful as when you
slice him open to tug the rib, with all your might until
a crack reverberates the cavity finally
heals the flesh half of eve inside of me but
what does this have to do with the garden? I was already there, &
Thomas Hobohm (they/them) is a young nonbinary writer from SF by way of Texas. They are interested in interrogating queer desire and the will to intersubjective knowledge. When they're not reading or writing, they enjoy playing volleyball and going to the cinema. They can be found on Twitter as @thomashobohm and Instagram as @skyferreiraofficial.