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August 14, 2020 Poetry

Two Poems

Hannah Cajandig-Taylor

Two Poems photo

on trepidation

oh empty oberon bottle / oh sertraline / oh fucking desire to / attend the state fair / buy goat cheese / spend an evening making manhattans for a business man’s pocket change / complain about it / oh painted highway line / patches blooming yellow / oh electricity of wanting to / separate those going down the road / watch netflix without flinching when strangers touch each other & don’t soap their palms afterwards / instead sharing liquor bottles / plaid bedsheets / the warmth of another mouth against their mouth / paper hearts taped to front windows / body of aching water / ribboning against the shoreline / & now that I have told you about longing and touch / everything will be about longing &  touching / here / when I say love it will no longer mean love / no / it will mean loose hands / concrete-kissed knees / insufferable brushes with dying & sometimes wanting / an original diagram of drowning / oh $7.99 porch lights colored like / life rings / dog-eared pages that papercut my fingers / star charts I never learned to read / but suddenly want to ink on my spine / my popcorned ceiling / every wooden pole attached to a power line /  here / when I say moon it will no longer mean moon / it will mean / a lack of daylight.

 

 

When I’m Lonely, I Shop Online For Things I Don’t Need 

            because I want to be irresponsible & buy a fucking trampoline
turn axiomatic & jump away from earth & back to it, pausing in-between 

to marvel at the yellow clouds, a broken yolk of sun melting 
the June sunset. Toss in an obnoxiously large yard 

flamingo. A box of National Geographics with comet pictures 
            cut from its pages. I want to splurge like I’m dying because 

what if I’m dying. What if the distance between fabric & sky 
can be folded inside my throat. What if I breathe 

& get distracted by the fluttering, miss the crows
            staring down at me from oak branches

as I simulate flight. Dream the decaying 
is only temporary. Let this be a reason to cave 

& drop thirty dollars on purple hair dye 
            that nobody will end up seeing. Give 

everything away. I jot down lists of butterflies 
& national holidays for no one to see. Celebrate 

by sipping lukewarm beer. Consider the trampoline
            & never take it home. Decide to practice leaving 

the earth anyways. Study Ursa Major, but like everything 
nowadays, only from a distance. I give in. Fill a basket 

with sundresses. Narrow it down to one more
            than I actually need. Forget about falling 

& cataloguing & ozone & atmosphere. Empty myself while 
wishing someone would stop me, but I always untether. 

 

 

image: Dorothy Chan


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