Virginia poems
It always comes back to the change in seasons
It’s autumn in New York, and I promised myself I wouldn’t leave the city—except for Virginia.
Wool itching against skin; cool wind; the brightest leaves; the comforting scent of wet decay from under our feet.
Last weekend, Patrick (Indiana born, smoking a J in a circle of Virginians, standing outside 3rd ave between 13th and 12th) asked me the golden question: Why the fuck does everyone from Richmond, Virginia have such a hard-on about it?
And so, last night when I saw Marina (native Richmonder), I laughed recounting his question–because won’t it be so obvious to him once he steps foot?
After a few glasses of wine with Marina, taking stock of old poems and Old Dominion, I’m compelled to share a bit of home.
HAIL QUEEN ELIZABETH1
When I broke up with Mark, he stole my tattoo. Our first fuck commemorated by his first ink. He did it wrong. And anyway, it was fine, because then Jack—with a Chief stained to his white chest—informed me that women with tattoos are unattractive. Which doesn’t matter much, because when I then decided on SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS, Rob’s roommate got that too. (Rob, who, by the way, wants to get a hawk on his back, where my dad has an eagle—kind of weird for me, no?) Besides, Corey (true Long Islander) told me, I can’t get that because John Wilkes Booth (disgraced American) said it once. Do I make it worse and tell him my dad likes it? (No) Do I make it worse and tell my dad where? (My Virginian pussy) Do I make it worse and tell my dad why? (Tyrants)
A wedding poem
The thing I cannot say: it was once as easy as slipping a note, in washable pen, underneath our door. Do you remember when I said I’ll never forgive you?
Still, I pose, kneeled at your feet – it’s hard for me to believe, by now, we aren’t on the same page: this is not for you.
Look at that dress, look at that smile: she is so good.
It is not for me. Especially when no one is clapping —
And what do you do when no one is clapping? — how can I manage to deliver a nearly false sermon and none of you clap? No one claps, no one knows how big and powerful it is for me to take the mic – I do it all the time! – and almost be so kind.
Summer in Virginia
Reminiscing about being 15,
Crying, on molly, about my dad’s
Hard work – the best high I’ve ever had.
Frying up tomatoes, I tell Zach’s dad I’ll call up my old man, get the old country secrets.
“I got everything I wanted,”
I say to Shelby (bald, scarfed,
In her sunlit Virginia kitchen)
I’m in my prime (she tells me).
My first published piece of work
Rejecting my old fateful editor.
I need to text my mom
To ask her to dinner. (She says no).
Here comes that sharp pen
I have promised you!
Writing about pussy and tattoos in
The Bushwick zine.
Where else you can find me
ShelfMAG, obviously
Who knew KPOP fucking rocked? (Everyone else, obviously). Reflections on the idol factory’s presence in the DEADLINE world tour for my friends at ShelfMAG.
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Names changed, because I’m not ending up in your hometown group chat. (Unless to gush, yeah!?)