on the deep distrust of duality
I. out
she’s sitting on the counter
cloven pomegranate in hand
one-hundred bloodshot eyes
gleam in the sticky light from the oven
she selects a seed places it on her tongue
closes her flinch lips around the fingers
there’s a tree out back saw lightning in itself
braided the bolt into its bark every vein woven
brillance
they cut that tree down said it was wicked
said bi is only another word for glutton
she braids her wrist with mine
ovenbreath licks the beaded fruit in our hand
shin bones twine four thighs waver and melt
we crackle where she threads me
we select a seed pry apart my teeth
let the fruit fall in a shower of claret and manic light
do not speak do not ward her off do not close the oven door
and leave me aching on this counter
halved
II. in
cigarette smoke bends the bartender’s face i don’t see him
men watching me watch women swing step
stoneblue in the light dripping rose cherries chestnuts
softly snatch a peach from the glow can i snatch a peach can i can i
offer it to the man nearest me leave behind
the ghost of pomegranate seeds
Dear Galaxy —
the moment i realized i’d never seen you
i booked a trip to the darkest place i could find
didn’t i know the man on the moon drowned in the lunar maria
long ago? now old moon is in new moon’s arms
your arms and i am no more human tonight than the last or the last or the last constellations of earth
shine from my notebook pages and all this time i cried for something bigger
never saw the white band of dust blanket the horizon
never saw home in your halos. my god how many people
have we sent to the stars? some far atom stirred within me and I saw them torso limb snout throat and belt
dog days heavy now that they have a name:
sun-snatched sirius whining to be let out into the sky
bear and bear-son wait for boötes to decide if he
is hunter or protector or something we never made him
to be and draco is still the celestial pole in some world
not ours about four-thousand years ago it’s all happening
right now for you and i’m still so many hundreds of blood blue harvest hunter hungry moons away. i’ll be home
one day but until then i’ll watch the dust creep into the windows until i lose you in the great rift the coalsack and the everything
that was created between us shuttle:satellite:debris means exile
Great American Nude #88
after Tom Wesselmann
my skin is kept nude as a color that’s told to be nude
but porcelain means private.
puberty was about making mounds into mountains but
mother told me it’s a space to be put away, to be trotted out
for his birthday his work days never sundays
plated in white silk sheets garnished with black lace red lace stockings
the air presses its cold nose against me I am stiffening, but not allowed to say so.
Stiff outside the mouth of a woman is synonymous with threat.
I am dutiful expectant open
he asks me to pry my thighs apart
to save him the trouble
he asks me to raise my legs
to get the blood flowing in the right direction
he asks me to call it cunt snatch slit
to use words that beg for him
he asks me not to be a dead fish
to flop and gasp for air like I want the hook
he asks me to get wet
to give him a tang of salt
asks me to open my mouth
to show him teeth so white they are one bone
asks me to stop being body
to be American landscape
to call his cock manifest destiny
to confirm his narrative: he had a strange sense of love
and battle never gave him enough…
yes yes yes
and yet
he looks past me and sees a horizon my mouth becomes a siren
his manifest destiny becomes a mast his body becomes a ship
my body becomes a jagged rock
my body becomes an obstacle to open waters
I close my eyes think about be
coming the world that was promised to him
The Ship
after Omar Ortiz
skin is apple cider in the light bubbles hit the surface and burst
as I run my hand along my calf, divest nylons
let a frothy kick send the whole heap across the room
I settle into a slow fizz on his cherry leather couch
as he begins filling the room
fire sprinklers spit sangria
bathtub floods blood orange juice
soft tomatoes splatter in the sink
couch glides away from the floor merlot waves crash in the distance
he’s content to watch me drift for awhile
until the darkling sea is a threat to us both
in those wine-dark moments he will see
a ship
shore is the finely kept frontier
once unmoored terror and rapture begin to feel the same reach turns to drape
arms veil my face
think of honey think of sunlight think of marigolds think of cochineal leather sour wine sweat
gale through my walnut hair
razor limbs sink to saltwater taffy elongate all the better to float with
breasts licked by copper anticipation
suck of my ribs is both moan and rue
two new shades of red to add to the sea
the waves burn the room sanguine menace
torsion turns to boat he embarks
ever the figurehead I am wooden
Errata: Hotel Room, May 2010
these kiss-bruised lips could be lush waves
in the lavender twilight of the bathroom fluorescents
if they had
said
[yes]
heliotrope trollop prey
all names you gave me before you held me under
water pulled out each tooth and fed
them to your hungry mouth
[when i came back when i came back when i ]
a dark room
liquor on the mantel
sticky fingers
bodies strewn like
burst
if there were only wolves in the room
if i was there
too then no knock at the door then you aimlessly tore through me
you’ve been told never to believe
the tears of a woman so they mean what you choose
in the wash of distant moments seas away from now
violation croons at my window
[without understanding what kind of animal i will be after]
Alexandria Petrassi’s work has appeared in The Seldom Review as the first-place poetry and nonfiction winner, The American Writer’s Museum’s blog, as well as Stillhouse Press’s Moonshine Murmurs.