{"id":3441,"date":"2011-12-09T02:17:20","date_gmt":"2011-12-09T02:17:20","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/sporkpress.com\/poetry\/?p=247"},"modified":"2011-12-09T02:17:20","modified_gmt":"2011-12-09T02:17:20","slug":"3-poems-by-kelly-michael-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/2011\/12\/09\/3-poems-by-kelly-michael-2\/","title":{"rendered":"3 Poems by Kelly Michael"},"content":{"rendered":"

A Poem for Elizabeth Bishop and Frank O\u2019Hara<\/strong><\/p>\n

There it is! science! when did we become
\nso scientific? do you remember that one night
\nthat you and Marcia and Emily and I discussed
\nvirginity on your front porch heavy under
\nthe haze of summer and three glasses of wine in?<\/p>\n

I bled my first time
\nI didn\u2019t know what I was doing Marcia said
\nand it was discussed why we call it
\nlosing
\nand Emily insisted that it was because
\nshe lost it to an older man to which
\nyou replied At least he knew what he
\nwas doing and she said
\nbut I still bled<\/p>\n

I lost it in a bathroom when I was fifteen
\nand you said in a field to a boy who smoked
\na cigarette while he entered you
\nand the field ran its fingers up your thighs
\nand you bled too
\non the grass<\/p>\n

now though! you stand on the edge
\nof a textbook looking over it like a cliff
\ncommunicating fear and shouting at me
\nWomen were born to bleed!
\nand not only women bleed
\nbut they were born to
\ntheir pomegranate gift is the impetus
\nof their own limbs and all the spiralling
\narms of the galaxy<\/p>\n

so I lay and pour my salt
\ninto the workout bench
\nI push the world up and away
\nas the implications of my blood
\nand birthright whisper in my left ear
\nsaying you do not escape this
\nas it was decided two years ago
\nupon my father\u2019s grave
\ntwelve years ago upon his flight
\nacross the country
\nnear twenty-one years ago
\nupon my own grave
\nthe day I was born<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t wipe up anything
\nI fell asleep in a man\u2019s arms weeks
\nupon weeks upon weeks ago
\nwith two solemn oaths
\nand seals dried upon our bellies
\nand this was Piscean
\nthis was anatomically correct and crossing
\na threshold between sentimentality
\nand dangerously unrealistic romance
\nthis was a coming out<\/p>\n

not only women bleed.
\n_______________________________________________________<\/p>\n

Lincoln Continental: or, All the Kings Men<\/strong><\/p>\n

Sometimes when we fall asleep
\nbeside each other I pretend
\nwe aren\u2019t two gay men
\nI pretend we can hold hands
\nthrough the rougher parts of town
\nI pretend the time between us
\nisn\u2019t two years plus ten<\/p>\n

Sometimes when we fall asleep
\nbeside each other I pretend
\nI am John F. Kennedy and you
\nyou are Jackie O. my brains
\nleak out onto the sheets
\nfrom a hole in my head and you
\nin pearls white gloves and stainable pink
\ngather me all up
\nand when you roll over half-awake
\nand half-asleep to hold me you hold nothing
\nbut my insides
\nin
\n_______________________________________________________<\/p>\n

America, 1942<\/strong><\/p>\n

I.<\/p>\n

The cauterized lip of your
\nwound brushes my hip
\nbone stretching skin so taut
\nI worry I might reopen you
\nbut this is dumfounded
\nby your lips overlapping my tongue
\noverlapping your lips<\/p>\n

the bag of sugar we had hoarded
\nin the slit between mattresses
\ncrunches beneath us
\nan unsteady rhythm<\/p>\n

II.<\/p>\n

I watch your brother\u2019s head
\nbob up and down the trail
\nweaving through trees on horseback
\nI die once when I see him
\nI die twice when I see you
\nslumped over the rump of his
\nhorse like a heavy blanket
\nI am paralyzed when I think
\nwhat he already knows
\nand paralyzed again when I realize
\nwhat he will find out
\nI stand there fist clenched
\ntight in the air near my throat
\nmotionless as though I\u2019m choking
\non the sweetest sugar cube
\nlumped in my throat
\nas though I\u2019m savouring it<\/p>\n

III.<\/p>\n

He accidently shot you
\nit rang out and even the coyotes
\nknew something worse had happened
\nthan one of their own being flayed
\nbirds stopped
\nso did water<\/p>\n

Your brother cut open your bloody shirt
\nand with his jackknife cut open your bloody you
\nand fingered your gape like a man
\nunbarbing a hook from a fish\u2019s bloody
\ngasping mouth and rough lips
\nhe pinches the deadly pebble
\nand lets it drop heavy and bloody to the leaves
\nbefore popping one of his shotgun canisters
\nand emptying the stinging black powder
\ninside you
\nThis will hurt he braces you
\nand it burns worse than sugar<\/p>\n

IV.<\/p>\n

Inside the den you lay huddled
\nin furs and all shades shivering
\nyou are a farmer and you are not at war
\nbecause you have a dead family
\nthey think is still alive
\nI am a runaway city boy and I am not at war
\nbecause I am in love with you
\neven under all those insulating hides
\nbarely there and pale and sweaty
\nI want to touch you
\nbut I don\u2019t because your brother says
\nHe\u2019s not hurt but
\nwho are you? and I say I am
\nDaniel but I don\u2019t say the A
\nbecause I know just below
\nthat bloody fingerprint your brother left
\non your abdomen is the tattoo D.A.
\nboldly visible even against the blood<\/p>\n

V.<\/p>\n

After
\ntired and droopy even after
\nthe springs have fallen back to sleep
\nyou lay belly to my back and
\nI feel it breathing warmly
\nthat wound huffing on my backside
\nopening and closing in a million
\ntiny cracks along the rough burn scab
\nlanguorously humid breath
\nreminding me of its intent to scar
\na pink worm of truth burrowed
\njust above the imprint of my initials
\nassuring that afternoon
\nwill be with us forever<\/p>\n

I sigh and roll over onto my own
\nbelly face in the pillow and slip
\nmy finger into the mattress
\nI poke it into the rough hole
\nin the burlap sack and withdraw it
\nsparkling white I let it gleam all a moment
\nbefore swallowing it whole
\nto taste that sweet sweet dissolving sweetness<\/p>\n

_______________________________________________________<\/p>\n

Kelly Michael<\/strong> is a writer from Hamilton, Ontario. He is pursuing a B.A. in sociology at the University of Toronto. The revolution is his boyfriend, but his favourite novel is Of Human Bondage.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

A Poem for Elizabeth Bishop and Frank O\u2019Hara There it is! science! when did we become so scientific? do you remember that one night that you and Marcia and Emily and I discussed virginity on your front porch heavy under the haze of summer and three glasses of wine in? I bled my first time […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1,2],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3441","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized","category-things"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3441","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3441"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3441\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3441"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3441"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3441"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}