Picture of Us

Picture of Us by Joshua Kulseth It was my birthday, and we stood—you, beautiful, youthful; me, spectacled,unable for the life of me to comb my hair correctly—in the lobbyof a hibachi steak house. After, I remember we were all over each otherin the cramped cabin of my truck, in a field, on the deck of your pool.I don’t remember you crying, though maybe you wanted to. And I wasn’t helping, being myself. We’d weather a few more months’ worthof disasters together: I took and used what you gave and after, always remorse.Rinse, repeat. It’s funny now, sort of—nothing we could make last, at least.I keep the picture as a bookmark in Auden’s Collected Poems, placed nowfacing “Lullaby,” so it’s like the two of us are reading poems together— lay your sleeping head, my love, human on my faithless arm—Auden knewwhat affection costs us in headache, heartache; ours no different, so it’s fittingto leave us there, in his care. We do look happy, standing by the lobby couches,against each other bright in the camera flash, under lights,my class-ringed finger gripping your shoulder, yours my waist. The other day I saw you engaged, saw the picture of the two of youcloser than us, faces touching, smiles honest. He looks nice, and you, happy.But between us: what we said, how we suffered, it’s all still there,though better as memory (we’d have been very unhappy together);better like this: posed always in affection, in the dark of leftover words. Poetry Home Art by Ellen June Wright

I’ve Lived So Long as a Dream Girl

I’ve Lived So Long as a Dream Girl by Jacklin Farley I’ve forgotten what it’s liketo be real. Betweenmeals, I pinch up belly fat, chubbybunny marshmallow bitessandwiched by my suspiciousfingertips. I then attempt to conjuremetabolism like a monsoon of ChinaSlim Tea and sugar-freeHaribo gummy bears throughmy blood. So it goesfor those of us past the acceptable agefor playing Bloody Maryand comparing thigh gapsat sleepovers. As I get older, I realizeit takes velocity to existin organic form, especiallymine. One minute, my lovelanguage is sophisticated curve, peachslice drippingsweet with juice. The next, it’s an aspirin tabletdropped into a liter-sized Pepsibottle with the cap screwedshut, transparent jugularbulging with carbonated excess seekingevaporative exodus in the snack aisleof your local Walgreens. It’s on the daysI feel the emptiestthat I want to explodethe most, feel like I am runningthrough a Reese’s peanut buttercup fieldencased by green Jell-Osalad, that I want someone to unbucklemy ankle straps and call me”kitten” despite the factI haven’t been teacup-sized since I was fourteen, despitemy repressedscheming to eventually fit my fatass back into Paris Hilton’s handbag. But ifI can’t have hipdips, whipped creamon my titties, or armpit jiggle ready to embrace the lipsof a saxophoneplayer, do I even wantthis life? I must be eating more to have such energyto philosophize,to embrace living like a back alleyduct tape Brazilian: throbbingand shameless, fleshyand blushed down to the bonein places no one else can see. It’s painful, butat least I can feelmore than nerve damagein my hands, the urge to hold my coffeecup in a compactor-tightgrip to register even a Celsiusof warmth. Call it my own methodfor moderation, aftermathof disorder. Call it crèmebrûléeing the wound after it curdles. As longas you sing, paradoxof my digestive tract. For I know one dayI will cease to be cute. For all I know, todayis that daypouring into my palmsover my belt line, spilled pitcherof milkshake, too much lovein my handles. The world can tell meI am too oldto be silly or fat. It won’t stop mefrom molting, coming backin a different skin. For I thinkI am rather too young to be dead. Poetry Home Art by Winslow Schmelling

I’ve Lived So Long as a Dream Girl-old

I’ve Lived So Long as a Dream Girl by Jacklin Farley I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be real. Between meals, I pinch up belly fat, chubby bunny marshmallow bites sandwiched by my suspicious fingertips. I then attempt to conjure metabolism like a monsoon of China Slim Tea and sugar-free Haribo gummy bears through my blood. So it goes for those of us past the acceptable age for playing Bloody Mary and comparing thigh gaps at sleepovers. As I get older, I realize it takes velocity to exist in organic form, especially mine. One minute, my love language is sophisticated curve, peach slice dripping sweet with juice. The next, it’s an aspirin tablet dropped into a liter-sized Pepsi bottle with the cap screwed shut, transparent jugular bulging with carbonated excess seeking evaporative exodus in the snack aisle of your local Walgreens. It’s on the days I feel the emptiest that I want to explode the most, feel like I am running through a Reese’s peanut buttercup field encased by green Jell-O salad, that I want someone to unbuckle my ankle straps and call me “kitten” despite the fact I haven’t been teacup-sized since I was fourteen, despite my repressed scheming to eventually fit my fat ass back into Paris Hilton’s handbag. But if I can’t have hip dips, whipped cream on my titties, or armpit jiggle ready to embrace the lips of a saxophone player, do I even want this life? I must be eating more to have such energy to philosophize, to embrace living like a back alley duct tape Brazilian: throbbing and shameless, fleshy and blushed down to the bone in places no one else can see. It’s painful, but at least I can feel more than nerve damage in my hands, the urge to hold my coffee cup in a compactor-tight grip to register even a Celsius of warmth. Call it my own method for moderation, aftermath of disorder. Call it crème brûléeing the wound after it curdles. As long as you sing, paradox of my digestive tract. For I know one day I will cease to be cute. For all I know, today is that day pouring into my palms over my belt line, spilled pitcher of milkshake, too much love in my handles. The world can tell me I am too old to be silly or fat. It won’t stop me from molting, coming back in a different skin. For I think I am rather too young to be dead. Poetry Home Art by Winslow Schmelling