Three Poems
Mariel Fechik
I dream myself into a field that is lime green. There is a branch in my lungs, and I can’t love like I used to. This is a ghost story.
I dream myself into a field that is lime green. There is a branch in my lungs, and I can’t love like I used to. This is a ghost story.
The Gemini
It would be a lie to say I always went to bed with one brother
and woke up with another—that at night he placed pomegranate
seeds on my belly, making constellations on my
I sip red wine and weed / and deface anything that looks like me
Suggestion
new boyfriend says he’s worried. new boyfriend says i should stop saying credit cards are just free money. new boyfriend says i should stop telling strangers at the bar lyme disease
reach inside the incision
up the stomach from the asshole
ribcage gristle light brown mound of heather memory
spill oddities, like miraculous whole red berries
feel for the heart with two
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world
~ W.B Yeats, ‘The Second Coming’
One day, your borders shall speak;
Indignant birds will shit on your
Under the cruel glow of inquiry, I want to tell her that the party is over.
Hurry, tomorrow’s ashen face is at your door.
Hold out your hands, two tiny suns,
you’re more golden than they ever told you.
You’re from the cornfields, I tease, but not really. Your parents, professors at U of Illinois, both versed in the theories of music, both of them concert pianists. They play hushed, reverent duets
I grew up in grass but here / everything is bladeless, // hair thinned past feathers, / sheets slick enough to grease a boar.
Most nights we stayed behind, Tweety Bird / pajama shirts stretched over our knees, waist-length hair soaking / our backs as we sat on the floor and thumbed glossy 10mm prints.
my parents taught me to say ‘surrender’
in a dozen foreign languages.
Subtraction, division,
rabbit bones, rabbit lives
sometimes i wake up in empty fields, waiting for the aliens to take me. they haven’t yet, but any day now, i’m sure.
And somehow I’m supposed to get dressed in the morning / when most days arrive like a gold chain tangled in black chest hair.
You will etch your name in the most lunar dust. This world / may be large enough for none of us, saddest darling.
It’s simple, really. / You, like the other yous / are gone, returned to the God of metals.
Love is like a museum. You have to look around, experience things, and then leave.
Garielle's longest, most peculiar, most particularized book. A sure-to-be collector's item. Delivery 4-6 weeks!
"Is this the actual diary you wrote at the time? The diary reads a lot like a novel, with its motifs of the murderess, the acupuncturist, etc." -Garielle Lutz, author of Worsted and The Complete Gary Lutz