LIKE THE GIRL WHO HAS ESCAPED AND BEEN RETURNED HOME
BY ERIN TEEGARDEN
Once I earned my Mistress of Fine Arts, I took
to composing odes of glorious fellatio
and manifestos carved, autographed in cork.
And in this season of temporary joy, I went down
with the city, was bed to a mass murder re-enactor
and an ice cream salesman -- quite dreamy,
(the fingers like carpenter's nails thru
a collarbone, the nose and what it breathes:
among other things, fake neon palm trees, a particular
poem by Micheaux, sweet violent Henri )
this, and how I went fleeting through my century
decked in early-'40s debutante garb and luring
stray Cali Joes from the bachelor bar and party.
The world always fingering a costumed me, pink
pearls taut, beads spilling.
Again Mister This One hums down on me lazy,
barely to the beat or knowing the pulse and reason --
how in this 4th dimension, I sistered my era,
mothered my mind, which thinks sometimes:
who am I to disregard a brief love, anger, stop
memorizing, writing all the ways he might shave
around his smile, hang his hands? And when
can all my smoke stand in for breath? And who can
imagine that in most arms, I feel like a guest,
like the girl who has escaped and been returned home?