by Bailey Cohen-Vera
Once, I gossiped ledgeside with my body; the moon
curious as my open mouth, carved into the lake.
•
Purple-throated & mostly conscious, everything
I do is to remind myself of spittle. Last night, I wore
the most beautiful gown. It made my heart
ache. It made my forearms skinny.
•
I like the way I fuck when I
picture myself fucking. I have
been a body entirely removed
from thirst (this tints
my vision with many spotted reds). Sometimes,
I see my lover's gorgeous tongue.
•
I’m telling you this because I want you to know
about my desire—I want to recognize
more miracles than most. Instead, I idol
at men that wear pretty things
more than I gawk at sunshine.
The things I’ve forgotten find
fascination in my peaceful moments
& gobble them like salt grains.
•
Like peas in a pod, I’ve kept my manhood
bedside so that I’d have something upon
which I could midnight-sob. I’ll admit it:
I’ve known nothing of longing. Yesterday, on
the sidewalk, a squirrel’s dead body
gasped me into real tears. Over cheese
bread & instant coffee, my mother reminds me
of dying. Why is there so much hurt
in the world? When she smiles into
a happy memory, I think yes, but after—
•
The generic excuse—I was gallivanting
fantasies out of anxiety. The truth—
what I want to be is a bottomless jar
full of grandeur. An ember-colored harp.
I’ve been accused of trifling but I’ll have you know
even golden carrots taste lovely to me. This obviously
means I’ve lied to my very kind mother
& feel sexless as a watermelon. Believe everything
that I’m saying⎯please. Even my most
boisterous teeth are clatterless in anticipation.
Listen closely & I’ll offer you the eyeballs
that have tumbled from my earholes.
•
Things are getting stranger. Like I am making love
to myself, I hold my throat between my index finger
& thumb. See: previously referenced purple. See: attached
diagrams that explain my loneliness. I’ve been playing
fools. I’ve been sinning sounds & asking passerby’s
if they hear music. Even after being called a child
I know that mouths terrify me. So do moths & their stringy
flights. When airborne, I expect revelation & by doing so
I’ve made even heaven into a gleeless bore. Did you want
to know things that you hadn’t before? I promise I’ll
speak it plainly as a bellowing ox. I think if I were holy
I’d miss the world’s inefficiency. There are times I’ve knelt
prayerward and thought not even once of myself.
I’ve never loved out of pity. I’ve felt so much joy.
Bailey Cohen-Vera writes. He is the organizer of the Strange Tools Writer's Workshop and a Wiley Birkhofer Fellow in Poetry at NYU. His website is baileycohenpoetry.weebly.com.