I drove by your house and felt nothing but dreamed
of you speaking in Cyrillic, the Ukrainian I forget
you were. But the war, your huge and slender hands,
the apricots of your grandmother’s—those I remembered.
Here, in the dream, you are an unspooled grenade,
you are an orphaned ordinance. You pace in the dark
wood, in the mirror, by the bed of blood maroon
that often accompanies you. Michael. I recall
your name though my mouth is a dry jewel
at your waist. A rebellious siren keens in me to make
like Houdini, like Buster Keaton. But I find myself stripped
of everything, competing with the whole exploding
world for your venom/attention. There are always more
girls, though. Under the couch, behind the curtain,
split into voices like a prism turns light
into a rainbow. I am betrayed: the key in no one’s mouth,
the building falling without an open window. Just the calculus
of flight paths and your pointed teeth. My chest is an apricot
tree. My chest is your grandmother. Your hands
are slender missiles seeking a home.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 27, Issue 6.
Beth Marquez has been published in Moontide Press, Valley of the Contemporary Poets, and Ugly Mug anthologies. Her poems were selected for Damfino literary journal’s debut issue and the Like a Girl anthology from Lucid Moose Press, which nominated her poem “Shedding” for a Pushcart Prize. She is a 2017 Pink Door Fellow. She holds three mathematics degrees, has been writing and performing poetry for over half her life, and was once stranded on a deserted island.
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