Kaycee Hill
Over breakfast the Devil came to me,
belching sulphur all over my porridge.
Big bristled hooves, forked tongue,
three blinding breasts — heavy, round,
the shade of koff candy twists.

She offered me a one-eyed lamb's head,
tight-lipped clam shells, a box of tampons.
Her nipples cracked into a map
of Southampton, leaked honey,
melted the cutlery.

She squeezed the flaming teat into an antique
goblet, mixed it with tears then slid it
across the table — drink me — etched
into its base. She tasted sweet
like girlhood,

peppered with a musk I had tasted before:
my first experience with death
when Play died, finding used needles
buried inside window ledges,
red inside white cotton,

smeared up the middle like roadkill.
Her flavour frenzied every bud,
like ants spewing wings, taking flight.
I felt one hundred hymens breaking
like bird skulls,

hips tumescent and generous as the ocean,
the smell of Golden Virginia,
baked tarmac, lemon Shake n' Vac,
the taste of Parma violets, crayons,
microwaved milk.

Through this mirage I saw mountains
of bubblegum taffeta, clear princess
tiara gems, Anne Frank's diary —
dog-eared, hair stuffed into Bic razors


and my first big-girl bedroom.

Care Bears stood to attention as I entered —
all white tummies, fat and full.
And my old rocking horse restored
to glory, exactly how I kept her,
with the bridle removed,

a box stood in the nucleus of the room,
inside smelt like pencil shavings, lilies.
Stay here forever, the Devil said —
braiding my hair with a coarse paw
as the goblet topped itself up.

I took a sip, kneaded into her lap
and let sleep take me.

Locusts fell from her cheeks.

The sun laboured a look.
from the book HOT SAUCE / Bloodaxe Books
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"Blessed" is a coming-of-age poem which emerged during a period of introspection after completing my degree in lockdown. This reimagining of a feminine, almost maternal devil, became a way to explore the complexities of womanhood—with all its power, burdens, and secrets. Intertwining childhood relics and sensory detail—baked tarmac, lemon Shake n’ Vac, Parma violets—with a suggested loss of innocence, I sought to capture the disorienting nature of adolescence.

Kaycee Hill on "Blessed"
Black and white headshot of Reginald Shepherd
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"In the ’90s, few living gay poets were published outside of queer venues, and if you lived in a rural area before the internet, it was nearly impossible to find their work. In those days of HIV/AIDS before antiretrovirals were more common and effective, in that analog era before algorithms, to open BWR and find Reginald's poems was a literally transformative chance encounter: it made possible the queer life in art I now live."

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"The best description I know of the creative process can be found in Remedios Varo’s 1957 painting The Creation of Birds. In the painting, a figure—either half-owl or a person in an owl-costume—refracts distant starlight through a triangular magnifying glass. The refracted starlight dries birds drawn with a pen emerging from a violin worn around the owl-person’s neck. The birds, as their ink dries, lift off the page & into life."
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