Poetry Suite by Kayla Wheeler
“Replace my body in your bed
with a bag of bruised plums,
dripping.”
Poetry by Kayla Wheeler
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HYPNAGOGIA
i. In this dream, the hotel room is on fire but I'm the only one
who can see it. The hemorrhage of smoke. The curtains
licked to ash. The wallpaper peeling back like your eyes
when you enter my body. I don't try to escape or extinguish.
I say hot, sweat, burning up. You pull me to the floor
and kiss me. Hard.
ii. In this dream a funnel cloud spins in the corner
of your bedroom. You're not sure how it got there,
but you decide to keep it. You feed it and give it a name.
You never tell me what it is but it perks up its twisted ears
every time it hears mine.
iii. In this dream a cell phone on silent rings and ring and rings
an ambulance wails to the tune of Hush, Little Baby.
iv. In this dream we're lying in a field and it begins to rain.
It is the first dream where I do not star as myself.
I watch another woman who I know is me pull your hood up
over her head. She (I) wants to find shelter under a tree
but you're telling her (me) something very important
so she (I) doesn't move. I can't hear what you're saying
or tell if the look on your face is a good one the way a church
can house a wedding or funeral.
v. In this dream it doesn't matter how it happens,
but you're dead. Worse than dead, killed.
No blood or guts or anything like that, no evidence
of trauma at all.
Funny word, trauma.
Poison or a broken heart maybe, but no trauma.
I don't know who the killer is and I don't try
to find out. I never look at my hands.
When I wake up, I place one on your chest
and wait for it to rise, just to be sure.
Through sleep you whisper,
I love you too, and roll over.
+ + +
THEN, LATER ON
Bit down my fingernails I had painted
a color I thought you might like
gripping your cock. Sweet Daisy
to be exact. Thought about life then
thought about waiting it out,
bled until I didn't inside a pink room
with stained carpets & retail landscapes
on the wall. Out the window, a winter
where what comes next is also winter,
your trench coat hanging off my arms.
Look – no hands. A portrait
of us fucking called Woman
as Disappearing Act. The secret
behind this trick is that I don’t feel
anything. Go ahead, try it.
Slip a white rabbit in and pull
whatever / you want out.
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IF WE'RE BEING HONEST
Replace my body in your bed
with a bag of bruised plums,
dripping. Replace the nights
you unfolded like a fist
inside it with a field
of busted piñatas, flocks
of tongueless mouths.
Replace the mornings
we woke up sticky
in each other's syrup
with a fresh cut bee hive,
the calm before the swarm.
Replace every time
I mentioned my heart
with amygdala pickled in gin.
Replace the truth
with my wrists kissing
the backs of your knees, or
your lips coated in artificial
sweeteners, or both
of your ring fingers
chopped at the knuckle,
or anything, really.
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Header photograph courtesy of Angela Buron. To view a gallery of her photography, go here.
Kayla Wheeler is a two-time NorthBEAST Underground Team Slam Champion and National Poetry Slam competitor. Her work has appeared online in glitterMOB, Electric Cereal, LEVELER, Queenmob's Teahouse, and The Bohemyth, among others. Follow her @KaylaSlashHope or visit her website, here.