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March 18, 2024 Poetry

3 Poems

Amaya Hopkins

3 Poems photo

Summer of Veal

It was the summer of veal,
and I tried to reach for my rifle
but bullets melted like ice in heat.

Glaring, shine on my head.
Always seconds from passing out, 
passing on.

To make a name for myself, 
I made a mess of myself,
as was the summer of veal.

I fell in love with a girl,
she earned her wage putting makeup on the dead.

I ask about underpaid positions, 
if she could do the same for me. 
Brighten my eyes,
red my lips.

Change this cold cold form
into a warm summer heat.

She talks of the physical. 
"I think every part of this body,
of my mass
has been touched, sullied."

She says her achilles heel must be a place that waits between organs,
salvageable only by scalpel.

Let’s use surgery,
as a way to find new places.
Ones that have never been pressed.

It was the summer of supermarkets.
Of kissing down aisle nine.

We know our main witnesses
bred to die young,
adorn for their innocence,
the baby cows 
dressed in plastic.

All Arms

You second-guess me. I know you know—
me. I'm the backs of your hands. Feigned forgetfulness, but I see
flickers behind your eyes. 
Elbows deep in your iris, I'm trying to fish out a dying light.
Fishing out
that lightning rod. You're my hot hot stove. I've been burning up
inside for all of forever.
Harmonized exteriors, interiors, pulling down my sleeves, putting
my arms against
the red rods. Missing my hot hot stove. The center will not hold,
my center refuses to
hold me. Sides and edges crumbling, toppling onto myself. Uneven
building grounds.
Unmanageable foundations. Now I slip on black ice invisible to the 
eye. You've dusted me off.
I turn to dust. You know— 
I'll wait for you to do the same, 
a form eventually shared.

Leather & Lace

I've wanted it all,
all lace & leather & denim & silk & chain.
The blue, the black that shifts white.
Love gone awry,
hickey turned bruise.
All fine
with his barking,
biting even.
Hoping to convince. That
I’m the one yanking chains.

A silly thing really
wondering what to make 
of wanton desires.

How a girl should never get what she wants,
often a vile filthy thing.

Now i preach
no matter how badly you want them to—
Pushing you around & whatnot,
never let them.

It's as Buddha said,
“Desire is often ‘tarded,
nonsensical, and too free.”

It's the want-ers that need chains,
or at least a paperweight. 
Not to stifle but to ground,
lest all floats away.

All air & sky & cloud & true & blue.