1 poem | Giovanna Coppola




Under the covers in your pink room with

the blue blanket you can’t think of your father

without the blood rushing

Catholic school taught you to think

of the devil the same way

So you fight with your

insides willing your body to

subside to your reason to your conscience but

what about your cells that are

fighting to breath

little tiny brains

seeping through your skin that don’t

know nuthin about

how people sew

beads into their facial

muscles so every

involuntary action is



You need to touch yourself and

your sheets are wet and you

think of the breathing

your parents made when

their skin touched dark in

their bedroom in the middle

of the night the wind

tapping the windows closing

the December world out

when both were so alive they

couldn’t deny it peeled

back the layers so they were

both five again hands over

hands and down below

you bring your hands down

below too and now

he is dead but you are alive

and where would you be if both

of your parents weren’t craving

to be alive

what about the spot

on your body where

your lungs connect

what about your daddy

coming and smiling and

you pulling his blue veins out

what about him sleeping

next to your mother to let her

breathing pull him into a sleep and

what about you rubbing

yourself in your blue blanket at night

before school starts the next day

so you can brave faces

that don’t want to look at

your body because

you like to scream



It’s night you hide in

front of the TV with

the lamp off and you pull

out the porn you watch

your favorite scene of

two men in an English

garden by a lake

two boys in the summer

time with the rare sun

burning their butts and

you touch yourself the buttons

in the blue couch puncture your legs

you kick your pants off

and feel dirty for sitting

half naked on the couch

your friends sleep on that couch

you look down at your white

socks, force yourself to leave

them on, one boy is on

his knees, the other bends

over and kisses his

shoulder, you think

of the imprints the

grass leaves on their knees

the boy slides his cock in and your

slimy hands pump your own, car

lights pass over your window and

you want the car to stop the

man to come up to your

window and climb in and

take your cock in his

mouth, you want to

fuck him and then

you want him to leave

you, you think of both

of you on your couch

your tongue flickering

over his shoulder and when

you come listening to the

two boys groaning

on the screen, you get

an image of kissing

your sister in the car

you are ruined, aiming

your cock to your feet

so some of your sock

can soak up your cum

you’re glad that car didn’t

stop, that there was no

man that you had to

touch, that you can go

to sleep with a limp

body that will refuse to

remember in the morning.


Giovanna Coppola is a writer and poet based in London and runs a regular poetry reading event in North London called ‘Parole Parole’. Her work has recently appeared in JSTOR Daily and The Stockholm Review of Literature.

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