THREE POEMS by MATTHEW BUXTON

from Issue 22 of Bat City Review

THE HALLWAY

ELOHIM was always pumping limp
colors with air, contorting them
like rainbows around a washcloth
of black sky into animal shapes:
an elephant, the stiff-necked
giraffe purple as a tongue’s slack
body, a family of poodles, a geese
gaggle. He honked hot breath through
their innards, condensation dappling
latex when the light turned on. Which
was almost never. The first time I told
MAMA I saw him at the end of the
basement hallway––lengthening,
illimitably, like a white-painted
mime inflating the crimped lung
of an accordion feigning speech
to children seated on the riverbank––
she said my imagination was my greatest
intuition. The next time she told me,
Honey, everyone’s gotta pay rent somehow.
Ever since, she responds in the same
flat drawl the dresser drawer makes
when pulled out. You’re a man now.
Time to start writing like one.

THE NATATORIUM  

The ferryboat docks with a fat puff 
of exhaust. My arms inflated in emergency
orange. Chubby, small, bobbing torso.
SISSY treads nimbly, though she can touch
the bottom of the pool’s shallow end.
“It’s like a steam room now,” she determines
smugly. ELOHIM disembarks, strips his sailor
suit to a pair of red trunks. Tiny star- 
fish pinned to nipples. He sits in the beach
chair behind us. Wags his long flimsy 
lifeguard floaty. Black whistle of a throat.
“Well, which is it? If you could choose between
the hard shell or soft meat of a mollusk?”
“I don’t know.” I don’t even understand 
the imprecision of her question. An oyster? 
A scallop? A mussel? “Choose.” “Shell.”
“Then you definitely like mermen. Not maids.”
Bubbles rise around SISSY with laughter.
My face glows the neon of humiliation.
“Not true. How crude.” “Well, what do you think
of ELOHIM?” she whispers. A white stream
of sunscreen leaking down his firm side. 
Eyes glittering shades. “Stop it.” I stare 
at the wall behind her. The room a mural 
of forested mountains surrounding a lake. 
Smog swims along their ridges like finger-
ling clouds. “What! There’s nothing wrong––”
“HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK!”
ELOHIM blares, jaw open as a foghorn.
The ferry pulls out from the 4 FT marker tile.
Turns around. Begins to sail to the other side 
of the pool. I squint. I cannot see anyone 
inside. When it passes the NO DIVING sign, 
it is too small to see anymore. I cannot 
even distinguish the horizon of water 
from the painted blue lake on the back wall. 

THE COMEDY 

Edward Hopper, Soir Bleu, 1914 

At the café, paper lanterns dangle yellow, red, green 
like misleading streetlights. PAPA sends back a steak
for its lack of color. The waitress wears far too much
blush, and far too little of everything else, 
says MAMA who traces the rim of a wine glass
that goes unfilled. It does not sing. SISSY replies 
with cutlery clinking on porcelain. 
I gently tilt up the fourth wall of a house  
built from sugar packets. It holds. The dusk
is very blue outside. The mountain 
a wave too shallow to break. On the balcony,
ELOHIM studies a menu, seated at a table  
of actors still in costume: the general’s 
epaulettes too-silver against his too-pink neck,
the painter swallowed by a black beret, prosthetic cheek 
bones convincing suffering, and ELOHIM, white
as a swan bursting the pond’s surface in noonlight,
neck vanquished by a collar of ruffles.  
A red frown to match the red diamonds  
slitting his eyes. It’s nice to get out of the house
sometimes, MAMA assures herself. Every time I try 
to place the roof, it caves. ELOHIM slips a cigarette 
between his painted lips. Can I tell him a joke?
It’s rude to bother someone off the clock. 
Watch your tone. Why was the clown sad?
He broke his funny bone! 

Note on the poems: “These poems come from my debut manuscript THE FAMILY: A DRAMA which interweaves Mormon theology with family history. Structured as a two-act play, the collection is told from the perspective of a queer child raised in a home with the Mormon God, Elohim, physically present––unmasking the theatrics of religion, sexuality, and gender. I'm also on submission with my agent for my debut novel and am currently writing my second poetry manuscript which is inspired by Arnold Bocklin's series of paintings titled ‘Isle of the Dead.’”

Matthew Buxton is a queer writer originally from Salt Lake City. He holds an MFA in poetry from the University of Michigan, and his work appears or is forthcoming in The Kenyon Review, ONLY POEMS, Copper Nickel, The Iowa Review, Chicago Review, swamp pink, Bat City Review, RHINO Poetry, Frozen Sea, which nominated him for a Pushcart Prize, among others. He was a finalist for the ONLY POEMS Poet of the Year Award, the 2026 Tupelo Press Dorset Prize, is the recipient of a Vermont Studio Center Residency, a McCormack Writing Center Summer Workshop, and has been recognized by the Fine Arts Work Center. He is represented by Sterling Lord Literistic and lives in Chicago.

Website: matthewbuxton.com

Instagram: @matthew_buxton