ON THE FIRST DAY THAT ALL OF THIS IS OVER,
i will kiss / the first / kind stranger i find / square on their lips, / our teeth clapping together / like tumbling pebbles, / like dice / in a gambler’s hand. / i will set up a table / and chairs / in the middle of the street / and sip on scalding tea / while traffic / angrily / whips by. / i will fall asleep / at the filthy counter / of the dive bar / down the street / where old / and toothless men / with silver hair / down to their asses / reeking of smoke / or manure / or motor oil / play pool / and i will / delight / when the bartender has to shake my shoulders / to wake me. / i will sample fruit / in the middle of the produce section / of the supermarket, / citrus juice / sticking down my arms, / slurping the wet flesh, / pawing the rinds / while mothers stare. / i will crash / the first wedding / in town, / the first wedding After, / get wildly drunk / on bourbon / and dance on a table holding the bride’s hands. / i will run / into the wilderness / for however many miles / it takes to find a fox, / screaming in their shrill tongue. / i will watch / their feline eyes, / for certainly they will have forgotten / the look / and smell / and beautiful, homely vulgarity / of humanity.
TRIGGER WARNING: The next poem has themes of childhood sexual trauma and PTSD.
THE JOURNEY
1.
somewhere all is well.
2.
strange, isn’t it,
how trauma holds on
to a body,
how in one drive home
the spectral hands
of a grandfather long dead
traipse
across the seatbelt
and crawl
under my shirt,
how, all at once,
I can
smell the withering
of his deodorant
on the shelf
feel the ribbed threads
of the wife beater
sitting across his
weak chest
the gray hairs
curling over
the neckline
and how,
in a time that is
both here and not-here,
the car that I am driving
meets a force both moving
and immovable,
the front tire sinking to
the pavement,
candy red fender
cracked and caving in,
shuddering,
how my very real hands
remember being thrown
to the windshield,
splitting seams of skin,
diamonds embedded
into the wells
of my knuckles
3.
somewhere,
a girl makes love
and isn’t afraid
of who she’ll see
if she closes
her eyes.
somewhere, her
hands guide
her lover’s and
she knows
they’re his.
4.
“I know, sometimes,
it feels like this
is all that you are,
but it isn’t.”
my love
leans his head on
my shoulder
and I wet
his beard.
5.
doesn’t a body
ever grow
tired
of re-living?
doesn’t it want
to unravel
these memories
like a VHS tape,
its thin, black,
intestinal film
spilling into
a pile
at its feet?
6.
somewhere
in a theater
400 miles from my home
a man picks
at a guitar,
bellows
that I am indelible
and unbreaking,
and it fills the warm room
to its baroque, circular
ceiling
as winds off the Erie
howl outside.
I quietly weep.
7.
somewhere
may not be a place
I can reach
just yet
but somewhere
close to Appalachia
the pale
gray sky matches
the cracked road
leading me
along the snow-covered
lake
and a single shack
stands
in the golden
tall grass,
a row of upturned
and empty
kayaks
loaf on the shore
outside of its
locked door,
half submerged
in wet sand,
waiting
for summer.
Kristen Greenwood is a contributing poet and editor of the unpublishable zine, a Connecticut native, and a 25-year-old poet who dreams of becoming a witch and fleeing to a cottage in the woods with her fiancé. When a global crisis does not confine her to her apartment, she enjoys wandering through the stacks of her local library, hiking, and sipping iced coffee. When a global pandemic does confine her to her apartment, she enjoys playing an inordinate amount of Animal Crossing.
This is beyond amazing and extremely powerful pieces of poetry.
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Thank you very much, Kim! 🙂
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