Month: September 2017

Three Poems

Beast // Never Been I stiletto girl / flip my hair & wink girl / lace & French manicure girl / hand job for the Lobster Thermidor girl / cherries in my drink girl / People Magazine girl / other cheek girl / hold my breath girl / suck in my stomach girl / hold my hand girl / hold my hand cuz I’m scared girl / scared girl / scared of this mouth or this knuckle or this gun or death or you or anything girl II Anointed deified pampered blessed cherished coddled sanctified hallowed forgiven. Never wanted...

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A Hot Summer

You’ve been warned about this kind of summer. In Rome, where you live, the sidewalk repairs have turned gummy, the roach population is burgeoning, and there is talk of water rationing. In California, where you used to live, a wildfire has engulfed an area larger than San Francisco. In Antarctica, where you’ve always wanted to go, an iceberg weighing three trillion tons has broken away from the Larsen C shelf. It is three times the size of the greater London area, twice the volume of Lake Erie. Sixty miles north of Rome, doctors wait for the go-ahead to move...

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oats & nuts

i envisioned hip-checking the other women, throwing my elbows into their jaws, scratching at their made-up faces, all to catch the bouquet & contrive a sign you wouldn’t leave me, but there was no bouquet toss, the ritual too antiquated for the millennial bride & groom who once asked if i wanted to have a threesome & i said no when i really wanted to feel his beard between my thighs & run my tongue over her beautiful inverted nipples, but i was too nervous about the number of hands & what they were & weren’t capable of &...

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Architecture

Four days after Lane fucked me in my new one bedroom for the first time he asks how much I know about architecture while we’re under the hotel bedsheets. We’d just crawled under after doing what we do whenever he can sneak away from his husband because the air conditioner was too much but neither of us wanted to get up to turn it down. Nothing, I said. Why. I wonder if it’s as old as I think it is, he said. It looks like it could be from the 1800s, one of the oldest houses in town. We...

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Corners

The corners of my bed smell like different men I’ve invited to help me forget you, to mask your scent. Bottom left, the artist whose name I forget. His large, rough hands that smelled like turpentine and clay. The sheets between my legs, that baby-faced bartender who left bite marks on my thighs, kissed them back to bruise. The bank teller, his blue shirt and ugly tie wrapped around my neck twice, pulled tight then flung; he fucked–body hard, deathmatch loud—a brawler, like you. The bed lies gnarled, undone. I could dismantle the frame—bare hands and teeth; I could...

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