They all remembered the year it
didn’t get warm. Girls trying not
to shudder in their sunhats, every
sorbet that refused to drip obligingly
from the cone, the understandable
fear that by next December the
oceans would be frozen over, then
hell. Like this was a ball that once
rolling would crush our souls in
no time. Like eggs could only be
fried in pans from that moment
on—even in books, even in turns of
phrase just flipping off the tongue.
A proclivity for women’s
fleshy curves. How exactly
does it feel to want your
own out-and-in silhouette, twin
stiletto daggers not just reflected on
the wall but also treading at your
side, then writhing underneath
you along with echoed hips and
spreading curls? The shadows
strut ashen, swim languid in a boiling
urban midnight and she follows
with both eyes, follows their
trail of sweat and laughs
into the inked-up air.
Our mother is dead now
and never dreamed of this.
When the cumulous cloud across
your brow comes bounding
on lion paws, I know
I’m in for it again today.
Your brow comes bounding
up, gymnastic interrogative; yes,
I’m in for it again today,
the cat-roar of your hurricane.
Up, gymnastic interrogative! yes,
since there’s no winding down
the cat-roar of your hurricane,
this onslaught on my cage of lies—
Since there’s no winding down
your wish to get away, just go;
this onslaught on my cage of lies
just rattles bars with cumulous clouds.
She asked him to resist received
wisdom, termed it the kind
of gift horse he ought to
look directly in the
mouth so as more
confidently to
say, I think I’ll write
my own recipe for
catastrophe,
thanks. This
one neighs rather
too prettily for
me. So he
traded brown hooves for
blue water, unfurled his
bright sail. Set a
course for
the edge, without
her.
Willows wizened, aspen
sputter, little do our brains
remember but the airwaves run
forever up our islands down each
river sailing down with
every cough
For down and outs the
crying grows, our glutton
drooling starts to show while
children starved will never
know these notes
of bergamot
So decorum et dulce goes our
fondest song and truly the
fit is sweet where all
notes bullet the heart in major
not physically shattering
anything
just punching a
few spare inches through
and out the soul’s gut then
feeding them back
into you with a new
shape the one that makes
you holler at dreadlocked
deadlocked dove eyes above
their war-red-painted pacific signs
But in fall when the circus
march takes a turn for
ballad once Billy who
after all is just a
pup becomes
a was and commences
pacing up and down your
alley nights where
you see him leap at you
through the crisp
atmosphere in pieces
parts and sand well that’s when
the lock moves at the touch
of minor metal and and and and
--repeat--
Crouch with
me between the
ocean and the
sand. Let’s move
castles with our
minds, blow
away in the
wind. Conch
trumpets calling.
So you believe
you can just saunter
perpendicular to my
flight path pad
your tympanum against
my quadrilles stuff
rejection down my
esophagus make
me borrowpleadsteal
to earn
your glance?
Please
let me dare
you to resist the
space that nature abhors.
I will vacuum you in.
Suzanne Marie Hopcroft is a PhD student in Comparative Literature at Yale University and writes from New York City. Her fiction has appeared in journals including LITnIMAGE, > kill author, and elimae, and as a new poet, she has recently had verse selected to appear in PANK, Right Hand Pointing, and Everyday Genius, among others. Suzanne teaches developmental reading at a community college in the Bronx and writes fiction reviews for magazines such as World Literature Today and The Literary Review. She also makes a mean lasagna.
ISSUE:
F A L L
2011
BONUS FICTION: Faith Is Three Parts Formaldehyde...
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