Elegy for My First Hickey

I won’t say I was sad

when you faded into less mortifying

sunset hues. At your boldest,

I hoarded concealer and powder,

red and orange to contrast

flagrant pockmarked noise.

My skillfully placed choker, taut

necklaces a small fashion mercy.

Any mask to trick an eye

into pretending not to see

you blooming there. I regarded

my cold desire, gelling ice

gratuitous over a tepid puddle.

The blistering crystal lattice, a showy

force desperate as mutual CPR.

The need to be connected

as a teenager, to leave

graffiti where someone, anyone 

might see you, is to be

resuscitated. I read in every

mirror your half-dollar

black and blue, a billboard

sketch of my own aspirations.

And really, aren’t I still

advertising those longings.

 

 

This Is a Very Niche 90’s Poem

a tribute in ghostwriter’s native love language

& what was it about that pbs ghost crew

that drew me in—i can't put my finger on it

which makes sense—

like an adolescent who refuses a hug

no one could touch that educational boogeyman

& they were certainly no encyclopedia brown

or bloodhound gang or j. edgar hoover however I worship

at the genius of whoever conjured up a floating crop circle

a skywriting punctuation mark a literary hero

who evaporates & then rains down letters

to both inform & annoy you at inopportune moments

you could say ghostwriter was the original

push notification & kaleidoscopic public television

brooklyn like a hoard of lisa frank stickers

as if permed midwestern poodle bangs could look away

from lenni recording a music video

with a pen around her neck & daisy fuentes

as galaxy girl i’m fan-girling again

subway tunnel PG mysteries solved by reading the room

i learned it’s possible to be as genteel as shy kittens

eating cupcakes & paint splattering pandas &

still get shit done & dad don’t you dare

those stickers are a collector's item my headgear

contraption & clearasil & scrunchies & the show ran their course

got canceled & now my 12-year old phantom self is fed up

with this grown-ass version of me very serious

& slathering an unknown cream concoction

on my peri-menopausal face & shaking my fist

at 15 dollar cocktails & trying to figure out

who the hell harry styles is i read

apple tv is airing a remake so please

ghost friend give a sign of my youth

being rebooted too

i’m not wearing any fucking scrunchies though

 

 

the tape deck is dubbing

my sister’s debbie gibson cassette & i pester sugar ant

fugitives conquering the patio dangling my tender

limbs off a pier over hedges my parents always at war

 

with insecticide weapons & the berlin wall is falling

on the cbs evening news but i don’t know

what a barrier really is half-day kindergarten

 

& sesame street can you tell me how

to get to a lowercase i how to recede into

the alphabet it’s called introvert

 

but i don't know it yet & kudos is a candy bar

pretending to be granola i think it’s all about food

but it’s about appetite in the back corner

 

of our lot a rusting swing set & colossal boulder casually

branded the rock like a petrified seed too stubborn

to sprout & the rains have drenched the fall forest drab

 

70’s paneling and dark wood stain it doesn’t take

the hardy boys to sniff out the basement funk

of mushrooms scattered umbrellas open

 

i hold the rot pop-ups like tiny slimy bids

for attention & wonder about the evergreen

with pinecone earrings studded all the way up

 

& it’s not-secret bark scar i guess

it was lightning but not a direct strike