E. Kristin Anderson | More Than Biology I Ride Misandry Like a Bicycle Without a Helmet | Poets Resist

E. Kristin Anderson is a poet and glitter enthusiast living mostly at a Starbucks somewhere in Austin, Texas. She is the editor of Come as You Are, an anthology of writing on 90s pop culture (Anomalous Press), and her work has been published worldwide in many magazines. She is the author of nine chapbooks of poetry including Pray, Pray, Pray: Poems I wrote to Prince in the middle of the night (Porkbelly Press), Fire in the Sky (Grey Book Press), 17 seventeen XVII (Grey Book Press), and Behind, All You’ve Got (Semiperfect Press, forthcoming). Kristin is an assistant poetry editor at The Boiler and an editorial assistant at Sugared Water. Once upon a time she worked nights at The New Yorker.

E. Kristin Anderson’s Website.

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The Boiler

Sugared Water

Also by E. Kristin Anderson: Fire in the Sky She Witnesses: Found Poems 17 Days Pray Pray Pray: Poems I wrote to Prince in the middle of the night A Guide for the Practical Abductee A Jab of Deep Urgency

Previously in Glass: A Journal of Poetry: This Is How I Am A Monster Raiding The Worn Places Gone Cunt, Indictment

Poets Resist
Edited by Samantha Duncan
March 11, 2019

E. Kristin Anderson

More Than Biology I Ride Misandry Like a Bicycle Without a Helmet

after The X-Files Find this autopsy complete on the aluminum— experts tell me the body is disposable even as Scully cradles a boy’s head and there it is— an insect in the eye. There is always a creep to explain it all to discount the peripheral to flirt over a post-mortem examination tongue out. In Scully’s microscope: the animal and the ephemeral. Turn on the radio for worship turn on the TV to see a girl scream to push the envelope for an audience. Save the girl. Live for a kiss. Nature bites and Doctor Scully watches closely for the teeth and there is an absence of males in this directed biology. So while we’re here, define for me loner. Put it under glass. How soon will a swarm of lonely take someone’s breath? Gun in hand Dana Scully finally lets science eat the scientist useless as he is. Let him rest in that sour space. We ignore the flowers and the pheromones. I attack our humanity so violently let us all crash into the sidewalk to see who survives. I open my mouth and command the locusts to come and bite his tongue on my behalf. Make it biblical. Make it scientific. Swallow a flashlight triumphant. He can smile all day long but shared menstrual cycles are best explained by those of us who have bled and in this way perhaps bugs are best explained by the bugs themselves. I make the air thick with my own buzzing hold to the wall any dumbass who would draw Agent Scully a diagram of her own investigation take the smile out of his face hang those teeth in a silk web shining across my neck.