LANDSCAPE WITH FANGS AND SEAWEED
To no one I said: The dogs can’t keep from staring.
I said: I have never been afraid of anything.
I forged a strut.
I lay on thick-grained sand
and fingered myself with chili on my tips
to burn any thoughts under a foreign sky.
Meanwhile, he took the line of atrocity
all the way out to sea I could see through pearled glasses.
His wet skin wore the beach like scales
like scabies like the disease he was.
He didn’t allow me farther than the fence
so the strays stood guard while I showered
with my suit somewhere sunk
watching all those little boats in the distance
even though I knew
to command salvation
would be impossible against the self-annihilation.
I said: Yes, any man would have me over the seaweed
easy. I said: Yes,
all the wild dogs bare fangs.
I said: Only one mouth claims my grit in its teeth.
POEM TO REMIND MY HEART TO BEAT
No matter the upright life I’ve been trying to lead
I keep looking for new ways to fuck myself
so hard I’m always pleading for relief, frantically
trying to locate whatever blunt object would sock me
into unconsciousness. I know what it’s like
to be powerless
on a shag rug. When I tell you—come closer,
closer, look how pretty I am, come closer, close--
I will bury you there
in this petri dish of what-went-wrong
growing in its dozens of gruesome sequences.
It’s October, slowly
the webs arch iron railings, the pumpkins appear
like cautions, vigilant but cataleptic.
I would like that, my mood stabbed into me,
triangle eyes blinking only the fire
behind them. Come closer, close; look how pretty
I died on the shag rug, but you still
remember me. Autumn never did to me
what it did to others, a beauty to admire
right before the end.
I’ve been wrinkling, slowly, closer,
I need you to cuff me to whatever
apparatus will pump the blood into
and out of my heart. Cut me open with chill-
in-the-air, carve into me a face that can over-
take this unreasonable face. Closer, take me
apart into your arms, I am not any brilliant color but
the dried brown leaf of the season folded over
and stepped on by whatever step rushes
where any step is rushing to in all these crumbled pieces
and in all these pieces I am sending myself
into the air to see where I land.
Lynn Melnick is the author of If I Should Say I Have Hope (YesYes Books, 2012). She lives in Brooklyn.