An Online Literary Journal for Stories, Poems, Music & Art
  • Home

  • Archive

  • Contact

  • Blog

  • Contests

  • Submit

  • More

    • FB.png
    • twitter.png
    • blogger.png

    This site will no longer be updating.  We'll be migrating our past issues over to the new site - for now, they'll stay live right here.

    Three Poems

    
    Marie-Elizabeth Mali
     About the Writer

    ​​Marie-Elizabeth Mali is the author of Steady, My Gaze (Tebot Bach, 2011) and co-editor with Annie Finch of the anthology, Villanelles (Everyman's Library Pocket Poets, 2012). She formerly co-curated louderARTS: the Reading Series and the Page Meets Stage reading series, both in New York City. Her work has appeared in Calyx, Poet Lore, and RATTLE, among others. She can be found online at www.memali.com

    Gratitude Prayer

     

    Timing is everything, as they say,

    though who they is I don’t know,

    but the fact that you didn’t see me

    the first five times I sat at your bar,

    nor I you, until a month ago—once

    our eyes lifted from the books of grief

    we’d both been busy writing—when

    we saw each other as if for the first time,

    tells me they may be right, for that night

    we danced, discovered our shared rhythm,

    a sign that the rest could flow, as it has,

    entrepiernas tan rico through the whole

    blessed morning deep into afternoon,

    salt and funk rising from sheets you say

    smell better than roses, the tattoos

    on arms I’ve come to crave, your body

    that listens to my body and brings

    me to the third, fourth, fifth orgasm

    of the day—I lose count—the curve

    of my hips you can’t stop touching,

    the way thinking about me makes you

    hard, again and again, best lover

    I’ve ever had, we both say, so today

    I give thanks for right timing, here

    in April frost, windows steamed

    and shaded as we find new ways

    to curl into one another and release,

    in darkness and in light,

    Amen.

     

     

    Cray Cray

     

    I’ve never understood the crazy shit

    people do after a breakup, like hang out

    near the ex’s car parked outside

    the coffee shop, waiting for a glimpse,

    or to find out who the ex is with,

    or the way people text and text and text,

    or check Facebook a hundred times a day

    for clues. Until you. I now know

    I could turn into one of those women
    the whole town shakes its head at

    while drawing circles in the air

    by one ear with a forefinger.

    My first thought on waking today

    was to drive by your house, knowing you

    would still be asleep, to see if her car

    was parked next to your truck. Trouble is,

    I don’t know what she drives, nor did I ever

    notice your roommate and neighbor’s rides,

    and I’m not willing to knife my heart

    over the wrong car. That must mean

    someone sane is still in here, though she

    and crazy are duking it out pretty hard.

    I want to show up at your work tonight

    because you haven’t responded to my three

    texts from 24 hours ago, but the sane one

    doesn’t want a scene, or to see your eyes

    narrow and jaw tighten at the sight of me,

    the one who made you shine so bright

    friends and strangers would comment

    on your unusual happiness, so I won’t.

    Would it be so bad to happen to be shopping

    at the store across the street around the time

    you go in to work, to wait there so I can

    watch through the window as you park

    your hog in the illegal spot you use on the corner,

    to hope you’d see my face behind the glass

    and come toward me instead of turning away?

     

     

    Stranded

     

    While we’re fucking I place his hand on my throat

    to see if it feels right there, like yours did.

    He says, What great sex, unaware that I’m floating

    above the bed waiting for it to end so I can return

    to remembering you with my whole self, something

    I do more often than I should. Did you hear

    last year almost 200 dolphins were stranded

    on Cape Cod in one month, no explanation?

    Over 1000 cetaceans stranded in the Gulf since the BP oil spill.

    Every month you drift further away from me on a tide

    that defies the moon’s demands for it to turn back.

    Hit by a boat, a fin whale was stranded two months ago

    and lived for a few hours on a beach near San Francisco,

    a hematoma blossom over its heart, a heart the size

    of a small child. As the scientists performed the necropsy,

    one said, This is our first live whale, cutting out an eyeball

    bigger than a grapefruit. Others extracted intestines thick

    as an arm and snapped baleen with a branch cutter.

    I can barely feel your body’s weight anymore,

    barely hear your voice calling me, Mi ninfa. Mi cielo.

    Today in class we read a poem about a girl who tattooed

    Make of my life a few wild stanzas on her back, a poem

    written by a girl who loved her. The tattooed girl

    swam away too fast for the words to be read as she left.

    As we discussed the poem, my words hung over the table,

    unsaid, the lines of mine you tattooed on your thigh,

    the lines you said you’d carry with you into the ground,

    on the thigh I will not again touch, the thigh hidden

    under your jeans, the thigh your girlfriend sees

    when you make love, your hand most likely on her throat.

    Back to Home Page