Tuesday, September 11, 2018

Fire-Water, Invisibility

Nobody heard her until the fly came out of her chest.
Hidden in a square room,
chocolate liqueur and a mirror slit.
If you stick your head out the kitchen window
you can see her reflected in the air vents.
The pink to purple birthmark,
a tryst upon her chest.

The first scream 
indicated the first fly,
Her chest like a dragon 
burping a tiny flame.
Scratched and scabbed,
it looked freckled.

We soothed her
with KahlĂșa and Malibu.
Patched her chest up
with a beige bandaid.
A cream-colored X
on her strawberry grape body.

The second time we rolled our eyes,
pretending to inspect the open hole,
a dot within a dot.
We checked a big red
on the warble fly box
she held in her hand.

Drinking in shades of eggshell,
she searched for a medicine
in the absence of an extraction.
A new smoker’s cough,
thinking the combination
of tobacco and sweet poison
would drive them out.

The next day
we passed her room 
to see if she still felt the flies
pulsating under her skin.
We thought,
they wouldn’t look like flies!
If anything, small chunky yellow
amphibian snacks.

We came upon her square room,
lights on and door swung open.
Her woven tapestry dipped 
in the middle where it missed a tack,
a glass ashtray filled with clips and sandy ash.
No fly girl,
only buzzing.



Daddy warbucks
in a pre-pubescent ginger boy
when I’m supposed to be the redhead.
a little blonde annie with wire frames
from the drugstore (before Warby Parker),
already hated by Hannah
and the other girls.
I told him I can’t sing high
but he doesn’t believe me,
so “only a day
is the sound normal girls
make when they pinch their noses,
but my jewish deviation
comes to it naturally.
The boy in the audience
who tried to kill himself with a plastic fork
screams my name, mispronounced - 
I knew he never really loved me.
I get in trouble with the camp director
for his 9-year old declaration.
Where did he learn this kind of romance?
I get applauded for holding onto the golden retriever,
so tight 
everyone impressed that i didn’t let her leave the stage
during my solo
even when i slid across the floor.
we all turn joyous 
when teddy roosevelt wheels onto the stage
to save the day.
this is where i learn more history
than i do in public school social studies like,
teddy got that nickname because he loved teddy bears,
or had the demeanor of one?
a stuffed animal president.
annie as my first taste of expectation,
pressured performance
coming straight out of my throat.


The feeling of a pill 
stuck in my throat
like a powdered donut
or the wasp in my dad’s beer.
I don’t feel discomfort,
I feel impatient.
my throat is
when did I get so good at swallowing pills without water?
pooling enough saliva 
to take them in the girls bathroom stall
where i can’t cup my hands in the sink
and make people wonder
why i’m not at the fountain.
years later i wonder,
maybe i did really spit on that girl,
maybe she’s not losing her mind,
maybe i am possessing her.
after many years of 
“ She doesn’t need the pain medication “
after dental surgeries,
because they knew i wanted it,
 I’m now allowed to take pills:
to not get pregnant,
to numb emotions.
don’t they do the same thing?


if you’re doing it right
the cum will go straight to the back
of your throat,
slide right down.
this is never shown
in porn
jizz on stomach, tits
like a creamy puff pastry
from a patisserie
with welded chairs
like suburban fences,
pistachio madeleine’s 
that aren’t supposed to be this dry.
i ate one once 
and the smacking of my lips,
roof of my mouth coated in dust
felt the same as a pill high,
just as much of a delicacy.
sometimes the pavement
being hosed down in new york
smells like cum.
i wonder if the accumulation
is why i’ve vomited in public so many times:
at hanukah playing dreidel at 10,
13 years old in my elementary school playground
after two 40ounces
sopping up chunky french fries 
in a floor to ceiling tiled bathroom (17),
now 25 and still vomiting on planes.
puffed up mouth, 
like the pastry
unable to contain
it’s contents.
my throat as a destination.