Poetry Suite by Emily Alexander
“I woke wanting
to be dismantled. I woke aching
for paper limbs”
Poetry by Emily Alexander
+++
Nude Descending a Staircase, No. 2 (Marcel Duchamp)
The woman is almost inconceivable, descending
the staircase in lines and shapes, and I often break
like that; body shuffled, shaken, parts
dismembered. You once told me this was your favorite
painting, you studied each crooked
hip bone, all those confused
shadows. That night, I dreamed of sharp
edges, lines that gave no hints
at division, I dreamed naked, and your shaking
knee rattled the shingles off a heavy
roof, shuddered the windows until we couldn't see
through. I woke wanting
to be dismantled. I woke aching
for paper limbs, stretched skin. I woke rearranging my bones
to fit into a frame, to belong
to a name to fit in your lips.
+ + +
afraid to title this poem "after the call regarding her death"
new orleans is still hot, air thicker
than we are used to. still spent
all day sight-seeing crumbled
sidewalks, buildings, wrought iron
railings. grandma sweat-stained, shining
behind us. clustered together, still a whole
family blinking and breathing in the heavy
light, and who knows if we are content
in this, or if we should be
beneath the clammy hands of this sky. i
for one, can never quite figure myself out
enough to enjoy anything
certainly or on time. dad orders us drinks,
and now in the mirror, i don't recognize my
frizz, my striped shirt, and all week
like this, it's strange; i open my mouth
and am surprised when the opposite i
does the same, and none of my teeth fall
out. like maybe i don't belong
to such a bright, damp place, or i do,
or i do, but still don't
know how. this room swims slightly in the undone
ocean of vodka and crowds, and i ask dad
how to hold,
knowing we cannot keep, how to keep
holding, keep not
keeping, while nothing
stays. a woman stands on the bar, empties
her throat of notes into these spaces between
bodies. dad's elbows rest close
on the table, but i trace my finger
along the water hanging
from my glass, let it cling to my skin and settle
there. if i could do this for more things, i might lose
less. if this is grief, i think i'm doing it wrong;
untethered, reaching for my own body gleaming
in tonight's shared air and heat. this is may be not a poem
i can write. i should write. somewhere my lover
sleeps with a full throat. somewhere a still
room, somewhere a rope, somewhere else
12 years old fucking cartwheeling
the length of the lawn, and now, and now: how
can we possibly swallow night, and not
the other way around?
+ + +
Mothers
They've remarried now, all of them far
from the ghosts lifting wineglasses to hungry
mouths at Marci's kitchen table. But there they are,
as I will always remember them: Kelly's knees
pressed against braless chest, Marci's busy hands
lighting candles, pouring another drink, the ring still
on my mother's finger. Outside, it was cold.
The white page of winter curled at the edges, folded in
on itself, they held this heaviness as we played hide-
and-seek, ignored our mothers' clenched teeth
and question marks. We learned loneliness
in small doses; overlapped our shirt
sleeves, pant seams, our own nervous feet.
And I remember so many shoes piled near that door,
the gas fireplace behind glass, all that warmth
from the flick of a fingertip. And the three of them gathered
their war wounds, stacked them high like poker
chips while we tried to forget our fathers'
names so when we heard them grind out of our mothers'
lips, we didn't flinch. We fell asleep, were carried
to cars with empty passenger seats, returned home
to nailless holes in walls aching for the weight
of picture frames. I imagined them tiptoeing
into bedrooms with closed eyes, fingers soft
against the wall, as if it were spines. In the dark,
my mother was blind, finally, to the bed scarring
unevenly, one dresser still empty.
+ + +
Lyon, 22
My first tattoo: a globe like I was someone
who could hold it, and not just heavy drag
fingers across lines, like I was brave enough to be careless.
Silly, considering these hands clenched against sirens,
splintered things. France is warm tonight, and I am not quite
lifting my face to the buildings pennied
in mid-afternoon light, humming in the heat
and the breeze of passing cars. I am groundless
here, floating above this city's teeth, my own cautious mouth
closed, while everyone I love is tucked in sheets,
seams printed on cheeks, and I am so proud of them snoring
in corners we never would have imagined. I wish I didn't want
to be there too, pressed into the damp skin of sleep. I watch
cars slice by, towards accidents
or purpose. I don't know why I'm like this. I pull inhales
out of hours like magicians' scarves.
Even breathing I don't believe I'm breathing; how
does a lung land on anything long enough to keep
this body inflated? I'd like to learn.
+ + +
Header photograph by Meggan Joy Trobaugh. To learn more about her photography, visit her: here.
Emily Alexander is a writer, an older sister, and a clumsy waitress. Her work has been featured in Moonsick Magazine, Harpoon Review, and Radar Poetry. She was recently awarded the Academy of American Poets Prize at the University of Idaho, where she is working her way through an undergraduate degree in Creative Writing. She can be found here, or on Twitter, here.