This is why I shouldn't have taken four English classes.
The workload has had its perks, though - like the discovery of my new favorite poet, Kim Addonizio. This bitch is SICK. I have to share a few of my favorites - they're honestly worth reading.
You Don't Know What Love Is
but you know how to raise it in me
like a dead girl winched up from a river. How to
wash off the sludge, the stench of our past.
How to start clean. This love even sits up
and blinks; amazed, she takes a few shaky steps.
Any day now she'll try to eat solid food. She'll want
to get into a fast car, one low to the ground, and drive
to some cinderblock shithole in the desert
where she can drink and get sick and then
dance in nothing but her underwear. You know
where she's headed, you know she'll wake up
with an ache she can't locate and no money
and a terrible thirst. So to hell
with your warm hands sliding inside my shirt
and your tongue down my throat
like an oxygen tube. Cover me
in black plastic. Let the mourners through.
Human Nature
When I hear of how he kept one girl alive
after disposing of the friend and mother,
and about the next one he found
and killed and cut apart,
I try to imagine him hooking his fingers
through the plastic rings of a six-pack,
lifting a nozzle from its cradle
to gas up a truck, flicking
the dead end of a cigarette into the weeds,
and I don't want him to be human -
shaking water from a comb,
jiggling the handle of a toilet, fishing
for a quarter to drop into the slot
of a meter. I want him tentacled
and eyeless, like some
creature from a star so far away
it's not charted anywhere, its light
stopping short of earth.
I want him to be a shapeless
lump of matter that is not
our matter, not carbon-based,
maybe I don't even want him
to be alive - silicon, circuitry,
inert mass of material. Then
he'd be no more capable of evil
than a rock or a stick - rock brought down
hard on a skull, stick whittled
to a fine point and tipped with poison -
there still would be someone,
a god to work the levers, to set him
in motion. Better not to think
of a god like that, better to believe
there's nothing; nothing, and the human.
Bad Girl
She's the one sleeping all day, in a room
at the back of your brain. She wakes up
at the sound of a cork twisted free
of a bottle, a stabbed olive
plopped into gin. She's prettier than you
and right now you bore the shit out of her,
sitting there sipping when she wants
to stand on the rim of the glass, naked,
dive straight to the bottom and lie there
looking up, amazed at how the world
wavers and then comes clear. You're not
going to let her. You've locked her in
with her perfume and cheap novels,
her deep need for trouble. She's the one
calling to you through the keyhole,
then sneaking away to squirm out
a window and tear her silk dress.
You can't guess where she's going
or who you'll wake up with
when you finally wake up,
your head throbbing like a heart.
She's the one you're scared of,
the one who dares you to go ahead
and completely disappear. It's not
you the boys are noticing, not you
turning toward them and throwing off light.
You're crouched in a corner, coming undone.
She's in love with you now. She's the one.
Kisses
All the kisses I've ever been given, today I feel them on my mouth.
And my knees feel them, the reckless ones placed there
through the holes in my jeans while I sat on a car hood
or a broken sofa in somebody's basement, stoned, the way I was
in those days, still amazed that boys and even men would want to
lower their beautiful heads like horses drinking from a river and taste me.
The back of my neck feels them, my hair swept aside to expose the nape,
and my breasts tingle the way they did when my milk came after the birth,
when I was swollen, and sleepless, and my daughter fed and fed until I pried
her from me and laid her in her crib. Even the chaste kisses that brushed
my cheeks, the fatherly ones on my forehead, I feel them rising up from underneath
the skin of the past, a delicate, roseate rash; and the ravishing ones, God,
I think of them and the filaments in my brain start buzzing crazily and flare out.
Every kiss is here somewhere, all over me like a fine, shiny grit, like I'm a pale
fish that's been dipped in a thick swirl of raw egg and dragged through flour,
slid down into a deep skillet, into burning. Today I know I've lost no one.
My loves are here: wrists, eyelids, damp toes, all scars, and my mouth
pouring praises, still asking, saying kiss me; when I'm dead kiss this poem,
if needs you to know it goes on, give it your lovely mouth, your living tongue.
