bag lady, boxed

By Emily Carney

there is a plasticity to the soul that can fit inside

sweaters but not inside drawers. how many times

can one watch the same porn video before one

feels that they have become that porn video. how

many times can you attempt to untangle a cross. i

bought a black dress today — long, and covered with

sequins in the timorous shapes of stars. when i paid for it i

imagined myself sitting in it on a curb drinking beer with you,

so tell me what came first, the beer or the dress. you put

my broken buddha lamp in the hall today because it

“just didn’t fit.” i put you on the right side of my neck

during a sex dream for the same reason. pisces

is the blue cheese of the zodiac signs. are you a gemini?

rose-covered curtains give me anxiety and black gauze

has the polar-opposite effect. does styrofoam turn you

on? it is narcissistic to assume that anything likes to be liked by

you. it is narcissistic to assume that anything matters if

you don’t. i would like to be a man ray photograph

more than i would like to be a person. i would like to

be the glass carnival wallpaper at your lips more than

i would like to be a person. would you fuck me against

your window, even though it is phobic to be naked

in public? i have a feeling that although you are a poet,

you think that poets are phony. i have a feeling that it’s

all a joke to you and i like it, but i am not similar.

your lips came to me in a dream, red and shiny like

cartoon wool. your lips came to me in a honda

and i loved them away, and i pushed them anyway.

i wanted to be a porn star, your father wanted you to

make boxes. we both felt upset about the wanting. we both

learned that it is important to feel guiltless about smashing guitars.

i am a 5 p.m. person who buys cardigans to look like

trash. you are a 9 p.m. person who likes both

kinds of nylon against your fingers. i couldn’t

concentrate in yoga because i was fixated

on how much you’d like the ass of the

girl in front of me. i’m starting to believe that purple

hair is cliché and i don’t like it. i let myself get wet in the

rain today because i wanted you to be proud of me. when are my

poems going to stop you.

this is just the long string of molecules.

this is just the long.

Copyright Credit: NOTE: This poem is part of “Pethetic Little Thing,” curated by Tavi Gevinson. Read the rest of the portfolio in Poetry’s July/August 2015 issue.

Source: Poetry (July/August 2015)