Falling in Love with Fellow Prisoners

by Gwendolyn Zepeda

  (The Suess Carried Over)

  His eyes shine black

  His skin is gold

  He has a part

  I like to hold

  And when I hold

  that part within

  Bang! Bang!

  We rush and

  rush again.

  His form is warm

  within the fold.

  Our eyes see black

  and red and gold.

  And now the moment

  has been told.

  Our Love Is Like a Bomb Shelter, Baby

  I like lying safe with you

  here in the dark, but still

  keep planning in case

  I’m left alone.

  Why do I hide the bright

  jars of pears away,

  bring out the dusty sardine tins and

  force us to chew the bones

  over and over again?

  Checking myself for signs of

  mutation. So tired of

  running from mushroom clouds

  that my metaphors

  don’t make sense.

  He dialed me by accident and I eavesdropped

  Tiny phone in my hand, tiny time machine,

  bringing me love from last night.

  Listening to nothing for well on ten minutes. Imagining

  him late in his car last night. Starry Houston flashed

  by out the windows. He changed the CD. This one

  had a slow, quiet intro. I listened. He burped a small

  burp. Then he spit out the window. The sounds were

  disgusting but also endeared as they taught me

  his normal restraint on these points.

  Ain’t I a Woman

  Hush Now

  You called it unspeakable horror,

  the things this girl went through.

  But when this girl grows big and ripe

  she’ll be the one to tell it.

  She’ll have a whole hell of a

  tale to tell.

  And you won’t be able to speak

  when you hear it.

  But that doesn’t make it unspeakable.

  It’s just not spoken by you.

  It’s not your tale to tell.

  Girlfriend

  When are you going to call me

  When are you going to show me

  When are you going to prove me

  Wrong

  When will your phone call complete me

  When are you going to take turns and

  Be me

  When do I give up and set myself free

  Embarrassing to Admit

  Give me an apron and rolling pin,

  I want to gently scold you.

  A mother and wife I’d surely be.

  Give over to me and see

  how well I’d play the lady parts

  assigned while on my knees.

  And working that power, all

  dusted with flour.

  My grandmother said when

  the day was through, if the

  dishes were dirty and her

  face unmade, she knew to do

  the lipstick first, before

  her man got home.

  The rest would follow.

  Let me tell you what to do

  with supplication and honey-

  skinned turkeys. A voice

  like a whip. Hot oven, red

  lips. Yes, let me be your

  mommy-wife until I’m bored

  again.

  Situational Anemia

  My body decided to waste a bunch of blood cells and iron on a baby that never came into existence, and now I’m freezing to death.

  Also, more than the freezing and the aching and the cranking, I feel vulnerable today. Like an orphan in the snow and like sharks can smell my blood.

  I have this marled old-lady sweater that keeps me sort of warm. I wonder if people realize that I’m also using it to shield my person and the thin feminine fabrics that are the only other barrier between them and me.

  Instead of the sweater, I wish I had a leather parka lined with wolverine fur. Instead of a barrette, I wish I had a helmet with spikes, and then steel wire wrapped around me like cotton in a protective, noise-blocking wad.

  For good measure, I’d hang a sign that says “Leave me alone. Or violence.”

  I went and got some green tea. That should help, but I’m starting to think that the only real cure will be getting out of here and lying in the sun for a while. In a plain old bathing suit (and a tampon).

  Nicked Spine

  The anesthesiologist

  drives back to the

  hospital. Sirens full

  blown in his head. They said:

  When her head’s

  lying low, then the patient

  is smiling but if her

  head’s lifted to

  forty degrees, the

  patient face fills with pain.

  This means danger

  lawsuits, paralysis?

  Taking a hit, hard,

  to his med mal.

  Cursing the woman

  he runs a red light

  remembers last night

  the way that she

  flailed, and he

  nicked her spine

  and he bit his

  tongue hard at her

  whining.

  Why don’t they stay still.

  The anesthesiologist

  drives back,

  fast as platelets.

  He knows how to

  fix it:

  Blood snatch!

  Spine patch!

  Blot, clot, caught!

  A simple

  procedure like it should

  have been last night.

  Now in her womb

  oops her room

  bright white nurses fawn.

  The cries of the

  spawn while the

  mother lies smiling

  as long as her

  head stays down

  not lifted up more

  than forty degrees.

  “A simple procedure,”

  he explains and

  admonishes

  “But only if you can

  keep still.”

  The mother kept

  low on the bed there

  just laughs at

  him. Laughs like

  he’s nothing or

  making a joke.

  “Everything’s simple,”

  she tells them all

  “Now. Remember, I

  gave birth last night?”

  Child

  I made this. Within my blood

  a chemistry swirled that

  created everything inside you.

  Like a seed you came out small, but

  contained it all. Some for

  now, most for later. Like a

  balloon. The kind you make

  yourself, with liquefied plastic and the

  air you breathe. I breathed you out, you steadily

  rounded out, just like a soft, slick globe

  still warm from me. I pushed

  and blew and sighed and hoped until,

  the circle done, you entered space,

  we cut the strings, and fully formed,

  you float away. I shade my eyes and

  watch. I wish you ever higher.

  Self-Acceptance

  I wanted to be an Aphrodite, but it turns out I’m Hera instead. I walk through the playground and little kids I don’t even know slide over toward my legs, like flesh magnets, my big hips their umbrella. Stray cats see me and meow for scraps. Dumb dogs lick my hands.

  If you know me in real life, you know I’m followed by a single word, repeated over and over. “Mom. Mom. Mom.” It’s pronounced at slight length, with a crescendo and then a decrescendo. It fades in and out like a siren. Two sirens. Three.

  Hera has a stern face. “Get over here now,” she demands. “Stop that fighting,” and “Come fold this l
aundry—what am I, the freaking maid?” and “Hold on. I’m in the bathroom.”

  But you remain by her side because she will never let you go hungry. No matter how late your supplications, she will create your science project supplies in time. She will catch your vomit, of course, in her hands and hope to kill anyone who tries to hurt you.

  Sometimes Hera longs to venture from her hearth for a moment—to go to a movie or maybe to a bar. She glares at Aphrodite on the television screen. Sighs and flips through a magazine. Skims through a story about some pervert turning a girl into a swan, a lute or a linden tree. Checks again to make sure the door is locked.

  Then Hera yawns and falls asleep against her throw pillows that smell like the shoes of little boys.

  Malady, Adjusted

  Pretty plump wife

  your brains are clogged

  have I got a product for you.

  That’s a pretty plush life

  you’ve got going on

  so why’re you feeling blue.

  If I was to take and

  flip your life

  dump you out cold in the

  middle of the night

  what would you do?

  Now what in the whole wild world

  are you going to do?

  Proposal

  I’m ready to be my own bride

  and lie in my wedding dress in my own bed.

  I’ll lock the rest of the world outside.

  It won’t be you at my side.

  It won’t be Jesus, it won’t be the sea.

  I’m ready to be my own bride.

  Once married, there’s no need to hide

  myself from my spouse, there’s no need for shame.

  I’ll lock the rest of the world outside.

  I gave myself a merry ride

  but the chase is finally over.

  I’m ready to be my own bride.

  I used to feel lonely inside

  but I figured out the cure for that.

  I’ll lock the rest of the world outside.

  The day has come and I swell with pride.

  I’ve finally captured the girl I deserve.

  I’m ready to be my own bride.

  I’ll lock the rest of the world outside.

  Omega Wolf

  I was climbing, on my way to achieve a summit

  a fame, a fortune, a promotion with a fifteen percent raise

  When you stopped me. You said

  hey, what’re you doing I see

  your boobies your booty your

  big jiggle sugar thighs!

  I was shining, standing on the stage

  accepting accolades, face arranged into

  modesty and grace. And when

  I stepped down you

  caused me to pause, saying

  hi there, girlie girl I see you looking

  good there I don’t like so much such a big butt but

  if you’d let me I’d pork a pie girl and you can

  be in my magazine!

  I’ve been catcalled and

  I’ve been harassed.

  But this wasn’t that.

  I was running on a track or I was

  power walking a mall.

  You impeded me.

  For one tenth of a second, sidled your

  way into the corner of my eye. Mouthed

  hi, look at me now whatchoo doing whatchoo

  know that I can think about your vagina!

  Omega Wolf, I see you. You’re

  working yourself up. Would you

  fling seed toward me, hope for it to

  stick to any part I’ve left exposed

  to burrow, gain purchase and

  make for you a child who can

  climb, who can shine and who

  outrun you?

  Strongly Felt Sensations

  That Music Made Me Cry

  She says she doesn’t feel it.

  At first I think she’s lying

  and why? It’s such a strange,

  bald treachery.

  Her face says no, and now I

  believe it, and now I look

  away, as if from a hot

  pink stump, a burnt stiff

  smile.

  At the Animal Shelter, Was a Volunteer

  She showed me sick kittens in cubes

  that had holes like dots on dice

  made for stacking and about to be

  stacked in a room that would

  filled up with gas, with a

  big garage door facing

  out to a dumpster convenient for

  emptying boxes.

  Boxes and boxes that stack and stack.

  Kittens without end who are there and then gone.

  In order to deal with the memory

  I have to consider them surplus.

  Too many animals and not enough

  demand. Like snack food gone

  stale, like shoes out of style.

  I told her I went there to shop and

  she showed me a holocaust.

  So much for customer service, I thought.

  While I hate to remember, I tell everybody I

  know. They say I’m dramatic and tend to

  exaggerate. I tell them to hurry and

  get to the shelter before it’s

  too late. Save the kittens!

  I went for one kitten and left with two cats.

  (The older ones’ shelf lives are shorter and

  I picked two ripe ones about to expire.) She

  boxed them in cardboard with holes in a

  pattern like dominoes. Gave me an

  unhappy smile. Walked me to government

  employees and bid me goodbye.

  After Hours of Girls Gone Wild

  my retinas are embossed by

  lumps of nubbly flesh, hard

  pressed against my TV screen.

  Thousands of members got

  stoked then stroked, I’m sure,

  in response, and it’s the same

  beige, pink-tipped, poky flesh.

  And my retinas crave some

  mental zest—something a

  little bit more like sex.

  Curtainless Bohemian Girl

  Everyone can see, except

  for why

  Watch the boys who

  watch you, or maybe

  write a poem or

  two

  Maybe ride your bike to

  someplace new

  A soundtrack rises ’round

  There’s nothing better to

  be doing

  ’Til you’re old and

  vulnerable

  and cover your

  windows.

  Sunflower

  The title of this poem is Sunflower.

  I liked the sound of the word.

  Sunflowers stared from the side of the road.

  Their faces were lovely and so was the word.

  Why There Are So Many Songs About DJs

  The marionette Master

  reaches inside and

  changes my heart rate.

  Makes my blood flow, warmly

  sting, buzzes my head ’til I

  can’t feel a thing except

  for what he gives me.

  Makes his force reverberate

  and I don’t mind a thing.

  Make my body scream and

  if you’re good I’ll be a zombie

  for you. Reach inside me, wring

  me out and late at night

  I’ll feel you in me, I’ll feel

  wrung like after all the

  long days at the beach.

  Your wavelengths rock me back

  and forth now, even in my sleep.

  And if you’re good you’ll string me

  up and along until I drop. If

  you’re good I feel the strings of

  sound that go between.

  Betwixt your spinning and my

  heart. Feels like love.

  Pleas
e don’t stop.

  Winter

  I like pine sap. Who doesn’t like to sit

  still for a while and take note of the turn

  of the world. Our earth is a green and brown mystery,

  and your boss lets you stay home to notice for once.

  Once in November, once in December.

  I like stories of rags to riches. I love

  stories of rags to incredible God-like power.

  The idea that angels will herald a hitherto

  under-appreciated soul. The heavens themselves will

  set down a big star. That whole drama appeals to me.

  Plus it has donkeys and sheep. All

  set to the drum of the sweet Baby’s shadow, that

  rags-to-remixed drummer boy.

  I like sugar and I like sparkling. Red berries, candles,

  hot rum or wine. Buzz in my ears of the trusty

  old harmonies. Handel and hand-bells. Donnie, Marie.

  Suck on the pulp then and lick up the juice.

  Ignore the pith, the seeds, the rind that’s

  the rest of our lives.

  This Girl I Know

  She cries “I’m broken!”

  And calls down around us

  all the predators on land, in sky.

  I don’t know how to mend her.

  She screams like a bird in my ear.

  I turn my head. The smell

  of blood is making me sway.

  I turn and slip away. I’ve

  had my fill. I’m in the water

  where it’s warm and deep and

  she can’t follow.

  Goodbye. Good luck.

  Springtime Is an Indomitable Monster

  They iced the azaleas down today

  dropping bits of winter in vain

  tried to rain on the springtime parade

  that should have come two weeks later,

  on schedule for the yuppies.

  And yet

  the neon blood spewed forth. They

  grew fully grown. Spring sprang,

  sprung to life right under their

  dirty fingers. It told them,

  “You will never, you will never.”

  Spring lets you bed it, not

  bend it. Not bend to your will.

  You won’t. It will.