stephanie roberts

THIRST

mazzie lies supine on my couch all day,
 
 waiting for any rescue from inertia and the other
 
 physical laws—patient that the german train
 
 of karma is running late, as any fantastic
 
 believer in deus ex macchina calls resignation
 
 courage. you’d have to crawl on your belly to
 
 look up from her sea level—homeless, if we see
 
 things as they are, and somehow unloved, the call
 
 that is made when the doctor re-breaks the arm
 
 to set the crack correctly. we should open
 
 a cupcake shop named Cloying & Paranoia
 
 where mazzie may be useful in her sweetness,
 
 tense between spliffs and demure over desire
 
 —every sip of wine brings a justification
 
 from her (which is starting to work my thirsty
 
 nerves). she explains her sleeping bag
 
 as: camping, to the delivery guy and or anyone
 
 that enters the room. no one is that interested
 
 and perhaps that’s the problem impatient
 
 for explanation. it’s the why of a dropped
 
 egg oozing its useless over the linoleum. why dye
 
 your hair grey? why were you arrested? why not
 
 curse the god that gave you sleep with no dreams?
 
 why do you want to live in silence? that last one
 
 is mine, who feel no need to

THE OPENING LITURGY OF THE MORNING’S FIRST DRAFT MAKES LOVE WHILE THE EVENING’S IS ALL FUCKING AS THE GOOD POET PUTS IT

ironically, in the morning, the soles of your feet
 
 ache, only after you’ve rested them in dreaming.
 plantar fasciitis, to companion the broken glass
 
 strewn over the last inches of life toward the downer
 
 of decrepitude.

across from these pessimistic manias, against
 
 a duck down pillow, the summer peach of your
 
 days, breathes mortality’s fragrance from a landscape,
 
 known and beloved as coney island. and the years
 
 (kind and not) folded and unfolded the flesh surface
 
 to the jaw, where this whole damn loveliness hinges
 bello with the bloom of a semi-harvested field of stubble.
 
 a stiff brush from a man’s pain that abrades the willing
 
 path down an unclenched valley with sighs made of fire.

open your hymnals to sixteen ninety-one.

this is the other who is also the same, the one
 
 whose eyes spark an amber intoxicant of attraction.
 
 this is the x at hell’s crossroad, where the spring river
 
 swollen and unfrozen tears through you high and gasping.
 
 your grip on the rim of reason is mystery and your
 
 shared blood-type, where no wrinkle nor darkness dare.

repeat after me. repeat after me.

you could twist all broken up over the grey,
 
 white, cold, and always the coming november,
 
 if you’re fool enough to hoard the misery-coloured
 
 days’ subtractions, instead of the violet flare of
 
 this early hour’s jazz and the melancholy measures
 
 of ben wolfe and orrin evans. it raises the salt level
 
 in the eyes, oh yes it does sisters, and now you decide
 
 again to be grateful, praying to the sleeper beside you
 
 (a known foolishness but thoughtful), thanking
 
 him (your god!) for his very survival, just be! and
 
 then comes the amen of the tips of god’s waking,
 
 first, middle, and third, fingers placed on your tongue
 
 the preamble to prayer and the opening liturgy
 
 of i love you.

stephanie roberts is a poet and interdisciplinary artist. Her writing has been featured or is forthcoming in issues of Blue Lyra Review, CV2, and A Literation Magazine. Originally from the East New York section of Brooklyn, she’s lived pour beaucoup des années, in a wee town, just outside of Montréal, Canada.