by Aether
I stand in the corner of my aunt’s kitchen watching her red fish swim tiny
laps around the blender, cerulean plastic rocks cradle the blades.
my mom calls me her son. my grandma introduces me as
her grandson. I haven’t told anyone my secret yet
but maybe they can see the difference.
when my mom tells me I smell like her father
with the new cologne I started using, I tell her my secret.
when she hears my name, my real name,
she says it matches me. she says I look more carefree and healthy,
that my name reminds her of the sun
but she won’t use my name.
I watch the red fish bob up and down in the blender.
the riot of my family trickles in waves around the corner. my aunt comes in
to grab another drink from the fridge, sees me eyeing her blender fish
and reaches over to mash one of the buttons. she laughs when I flinch
and shows me the lack of electronics in the blender.
my aunt takes me outside to watch the sunset. she tells me it takes eight
minutes for the Sun’s light to reach Earth, only for the two of us to block her
from caressing the Earth with her light.
my aunt puts her thumb up to blot the Sun. come on,
the sun won’t know.
Aether (they/them) is a nonbinary poet from Texas living in Memphis, Tennessee. They hold a BA and an MFA from the University of Memphis. They write about their life and queerness through a lens of surrealism and tender carnage. Aether has been published in Hunger Mountain Review and was recently a finalist for Palette Poetry’s 2025 Queer Poetry Prize.