Zoe Whittall’s Her Eyelashes Were Long Perfect Wings Carrying the Weight of Her Eyes

Zoe Whittall was born 41 years ago today. Here’s a poem from my favourite of her collections, The Emily Valentine Poems…

Her Eyelashes Were Long Perfect Wings
Carrying the Weight of Her Eyes
by
Zoe Whittall

1. I read a poem about tranquilizers and love. I conjure my old roommate, Jane, whom I loved for 38 days. She had a mouth like a test tube.

She used to carry around enough pills to kill herself, incase the mood struck her en route. But everyone went to her for advice. She told me the solution to my anxiety was to have a little more wine with dinner.

2. I would steal her copy of Diagnosis and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders IV and read it under the covers; waking early to put it back on the shelf between the bible and the Pat Califia.

3. In the loft’s bathroom with walls that don’t meet the ceiling, I would splash cold water on my pallid face and look into the round mirror
a sublingual daydream.

4. The two stages of grief are

1) sadness
2) drinking

5. She looked across the table at me once and said, “If you keep staring at me like that, I’m going to come.” I realized that after her hot, low voice, Jane’s next attractive quality was her sociopathic potential. How often are you able to get that close to the apple? I left Jane’s apartment quickly with my belongings in orange milk crates. Her eyes were pinhole perfect watching me. She was dangerous like a slow grind on a last-call dance floor. Swivelled hips in circle eights.

Love Poem for Melania Trump

Wishing everyone a Happy St. Valentine’s Day with a love poem for First Lady Melania Trump…

you scaled the wall of

Trump’s chest

& crossed the border into

Trump’s heart

now you’re trapped
in the Guantanamo Bay of
Trump’s ribcage
& there’s no way out

Dreams in War Time by Amy Lowell

Amy Lowell was born 143 years ago today. Here’s a poem…

Dreams in War Time
by
Amy Lowell

 

I

I wandered through a house of many rooms.

It grew darker and darker,

Until, at last, I could only find my way

By passing my fingers along the wall.

Suddenly my hand shot through an open window,

And the thorn of a rose I could not see

Pricked it so sharply

That I cried aloud.

II

I dug a grave under an oak-tree.

With infinite care, I stamped my spade

Into the heavy grass.

The sod sucked it,

And I drew it out with effort,

Watching the steel run liquid in the moonlight

As it came clear.

I stooped, and dug, and never turned,

For behind me,

On the dried leaves,

My own face lay like a white pebble,

Waiting.

III

I gambled with a silver money.

The dried seed-vessels of “honesty”

Were stacked in front of me.

Dry, white years slipping through my fingers

One by one.

One by one, gathered by the Croupier.

“Faites vos jeux, Messieurs.”

I staked on the red,

And the black won.

Dry years,

Dead years;

But I had a system,

I always staked on the red.

IV

I painted the leaves of bushes red

And shouted: “Fire! Fire!”

But the neighbors only laughed.

“We cannot warm our hands at them,” they said.

Then they cut down my bushes,

And made a bonfire,

And danced about it.

But I covered my face and wept,

For ashes are not beautiful

Even in the dawn.

V

I followed a procession of singing girls

Who danced to the glitter of tambourines.

Where the street turned at a lighted corner,

I caught the purple dress of one of the dancers,

But, as I grasped it, it tore,

And the purple dye ran from it

Like blood

Upon the ground.

VI

I wished to post a letter,

But although I paid much,

Still the letter was overweight.

“What is in this package?” said the clerk,

“It is very heavy.”

“Yes,” I said,

“And yet it is only a dried fruit.”

VII

I had made a kite,

On it I had pasted golden stars

And white torches,

And the tail was spotted scarlet like a tiger-lily,

And very long.

I flew my kite,

And my soul was contented

Watching it flash against the concave of the sky.

My friends pointed at the clouds;

They begged me to take in my kite.

But I was happy

Seeing the mirror shock of it

Against the black clouds.

Then the lightning came

And struck the kite.

It puffed—blazed—fell.

But still I walked on,

In the drowning rain,

Slowly winding up the string.