Poetry
Monarch
The Crosswalk Blues
Leaf-dead-shattered-bone-heart
Stratified by constellations of
Ice-and-moons, begging
For God’s lovelust song
To orgasmically tear through
Our eardrums, to violate
Us with his star-eyes,
Penetrate us with the clouds,
Our body a gold-winged
Monarch fluttering south
To find love, not cursed
As we truly are, damned
By that hot-flashed-
Night-coming-demon,
Crowned in Jesus’ thorns,
Bedecked in Mary’s robes,
Sitting heavy in that chair
In the corner, whispering
The only way to mend
A broken heart is to
Tear it out with your teeth
And so we pray for jaguar claws
And elephant skin to armor
Our fragilities instead of wearing
These nooses of darkness,
Constricting our breath,
Making us burn for the
Pink-flushed dawn
That hides behind our eyes.
Gritty, Baby
5:02 and I’ve burned my tongue again,
black dorm coffee, milkless, bubbling
the roof of my mouth to blisters, and
I can’t help but remember
last week when I saw him at the crosswalk,
surprising us both at our sudden proximity,
awkward, split-second eye contact voicing
that peculiar sense of familiarity-turned-
strangeness that now hangs heavy between us,
his new headphones large like two flattened tomatoes
pressed against his ears, mine the same earbuds
they were freshman year, when we
would meet in the courtyard, mouthing
hellosgoodbyesiloveyous
smiling, so we would still understand each other
over the thump of our music, but right now
I’m remembering last week when
I’m panicking at his sight, my coffee-gloved hand
reaching up to hide my face with the scalding liquid
that I intended to let cool before I was forced to use it
as a shield, a preoccupation, a distraction,
turning from him and sipping frantically,
burning my mouth, spilling it down my coat as he passes,
I hope he didn’t see.
I’m a little gritty, baby
Is that okay?
I yearn for the woods at night,
Where the groan of the winter-
Bone trees slows the beat of my
Unquiet heart
Love paint on my skin,
Sunk into my nailbeds,
Streaking hot beneath my eyes
Like opal tears
Like music deaf-loud,
Hymns thrumming
Like our midnight breath, moaning
Through your bedroom speakers
I dread confrontation, despise
The hollow words that paper my tongue
Too quick, forced to choke them out,
Half-chewed; insincere; meaningless
I want to stand, beaming in the indigo darkness
Of your basement black lights, draw pictures
Onto your stone walls while the cloud of
Purple spray paint settles onto my eyelashes like stardust
I’m a little gritty, baby—
Is that okay?