is a glass of wine an acceptable alternative for a serving of fruit?
love the limb
and length of you:
your stone back, and
bullet mouth, your satin hips
and thick knuckles;
do not apologize for this
or open your hands
to beg forgiveness for your own
blood and bones.
Do not fix your mouth to say
that you are anything less
than everything. Say
that you are every possible
definition of beauty
and power. Say
you are the perfect
You stand in a dark room and grow a tree in your chest.
The color pink is your national anthem.
You have fled the burning city, but your pocket smolders.
He bats his eyelids and dust flies.
You are a well trying to quench its own thirst,
a tiger licking its bloody paw.
No eyes are on you, you are all eyes.
He is space age technology.
You are a fist filled with fingers. He is a ghost without a sheet.
You are a buzzing saw in the forest.
The only thing you have ever wanted is more.
Once again I have added not eating to the list of ways I deal
with the burden of being alive. I feel too old for this.
I have this strange solidarity with my seventh grade self.
The way she lived on green apples and coffee for six months
and her mother never noticed.
The friends I live with now say nothing when I do not eat.
When I carefully measure out my 600 calories a day
and half of them are wine. It is not their responsibility
to take care of me. It is my own. But lately,
I’m doing a terrible job.
Lately I’ve been looking at my body like it belongs
to someone else. Watching it slowly shrink like the crowd
at a party that that has gone too late. My stomach
has been an enemy my entire life. I miss her now that she’s gone.
She is a conquered enemy. A vanquished foe.
I did not want to win. Not like this.
I’ve been ignored by prettier women than you, but none who carried the heavy pitchers of silence so far, without spilling a drop.
Autumn lay somewhere dying. Probably under a pile of leaves. Confetti only trees can fashion. And toss on the ground.
It becomes a ballroom floor when the full moon rises. Glitters like a mirror ball. We attend the dance wearing cast-off dresses. Stained. Moth-eaten. You do not object when I waltz with strangers. Or kiss them. Even as chaperoning trees shake their branches.
Occasionally I take someone home. Fuck. Make up stories about old scars. Eat oranges. Play chess by the fireside. Paint while my guest sleeps. Wait for dawn.
You made me spaghetti with jar sauce,
adding it straight to the drained pasta,
no separate pot to warm the clotted paste,
stirring it round, borrowing heat from sticky noodles,
served with a beer and paper napkin, the best meal
I’d eaten in months, chipped plate on a TV tray
and I would not have traded that night
for a cream carrot bisque or a flute of champagne.
the slender strands slurped, praying specks of seasoning
missed the bulls eyes between my teeth, and I loved
the way our feet touched on the floor as we clanked
silverware and celebrated the silence,
the exhale of compatibility.
I love this time of year but yeah, I ALWAYS HAVE A HARD TIME DECIDING WHAT I WANT TO GET MY FRIENDS AND FAMILY WITHOUT KILLING MY WALLET. Chrissy Stockton typed up a quick list of 20 bomb ass gift ideas that won’t put you in the poor house this year. Some of them are actually really cool and things that I’m definitely going to be doing as gifts.
Check it out here! And good luck. xoxoxo
are married. You know this. You were at their wedding. What they say
should land as if your dad said it, or your brother. None of it means harm:
the way you look in a pair of jeans, how long your lipstick lasts, how good
the oysters are, how fresh. Married men are the lead characters in the movie
of their marriage. They share top billing, but have earned their solo screen time.
I mean how else do you really get to know them, they say, if you don’t see
how they are without their wives? The long curve of their arms, or calves,
where their hands rest: on hips, or elbows, on waists. Married men lean forward
when they smile, and lean back when they laugh. After the party, they roam
the kitchen, offer to share with you a plate of re-heated hors d’oevres. You see it:
the still life of some other woman’s man, barefoot and drunk, hungry and alone.
The cat hisses at him. It’s his wife’s cat. It hates him, and for the life of him,
he can’t figure out why.
Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz