“Pentheus in the Mirror” & “Mnemotechnical Fire”
→ PUBLISHED IN ISSUE NO. 24: FALL/WINTER 2019
Pentheus in the Mirror
The boys made a list
of prettiest girls & featured
my name at the bottom. As a joke, while boyish;
plump with guilt in glass & bad solutions to save
my shape. I tried duct tape; wearing a small
to redistribute weight. As a joke, I layered
six uniform shirts
& praised the pounds
of cloth suffocating me into easier breath.
My heft summed up by the quick stroke
of ink, thin as a pinky probing the throat.
The list grew as I did; stretched into dangerous
fabrics. Flashy in drag for practice—one night—
until the habit clings until it isn’t a habit.
I crossed my name out with a widow’s flair
for theatrics—the list of boys fuzzing with mold
in my mind’s compact mirror. Should I pretend
the desire was new? The list of girls I still
want to be is mental.
I’ll never write the names
down. I pin men to
my wall & stare so hard
through them, my eyes spin, until I’m dancing
flawless in the right gown. Erasing the chalk
outline into a glutted moon’s worth of light.
Boy is an orbit I throw myself out of, into
the endless question—how can I believe
the desire will ever be answered? If costume
is flesh, I starve off season & come back
famous for my wasting. Technician: Magician:
Tyrant editing herself with violence—alternative
to death I choose catharsis—the weight of
every jaw slacking as I enter the room.
Mnemotechnical Fire
[ ] will ask when you started
to remember the specifics.
Describe the obvious furniture:
Chair; rug; bare mattress; Jesus
floating & nailed next to the
poster for Passion of the Christ.
Details feel redundant; to search
the same room again & again
& again with eyesight only
weakening since—. Too old
to forget the beige; the gray
wood bludgeoned into some
comfortable shapes for resting.
Here is where the terror sleeps
while you’re gone for the day;
waiting to welcome you back
into a house of bone & cushion.
You fast long enough to forget
recipes for turning wine to blood.
Some bodies sweat out memory;
while your mind affords whatever
helps you sleep tonight. Here are
pairs of hands making puppets
for your child-self to despise—
dolls with skin translucent as
tracing paper, mouths powered
by storms of divine cruelty.
Sure, it’s predictable to mention
the crown of thorns, or, the child
who says yes, yes, yes to want—
using men to try & erase the men
before. Memory circling the skull;
digging roots into the skin, until
the door catches fire & the rest
of the room follows in flames.
You don’t know who the house
belongs to after his face glows
then turns to ash on the wall
just that it’s your time to leave
as soon as the nails begin to melt.
