“Life is too long to live like this.”
Just a dress I want. Just the dress. Not the gloves. Eew.
hard pressed to come up with anything like a poem today that’s what I’m supposed to do aren’t I darling come up with a poem if I skip today will a species flicker out will it matter in the end play something soft I’ll put myself in the shape of a girl a quiet girl a girl who doesn’t have cancer
the people who don’t do what they say they’ll do
that’s what I say
the kitchen table the sun on the pavement the living with just all shining now and slippery smooth grey shades that have never been seen since flat fifties of Players and Export A wooden matches heavy ashtray a hand set to strike the girl’s candles on the cake lightning what is drawn inside of her crayoned there for good now suddenly these images we draw into ourselves just to keep them lit it is afternoon it is evening
“barbed” graphite on paper (2012)
By Robin Richardson
The Love Story of S. Rose - by Robin Richardson
I live with a babushka doll. Thirty-nine,
five-foot-eight, she stands in the kitchen, thin
arm a buttress from counter to shoulder. Sobs
to the phone, repeats, is she prettier than me?
Her implacable, upper-class accent sharpens
the t s in prettier. Oh god, she goes on, now
pacing, he just fucked me yesterday and now he’s
with her, he said she wasn’t pretty but she is isn’t she?
Isn’t she? Tomorrow she’ll stand in the hall, lean
towards the mirror in a femme fatale tube-dress
with eyes like Audrey Hepburn. She’ll be on her
way to meet him. When she returns she’ll have
a bottle of red in hand and tell me he got down
on his knees. She’ll say I stood up, looked him
in the eye, and told him no, then she’ll pull her hair
to the side, smooth it along her neck and say,
then I went out the door, turned the corner, and bawled
my eyes out. Now she haunts hallways, spits
tobacco when we pass, says it’s good luck. She
sprays herself with nutmeg, paces in stilettos,
making faces at her matted Persian cats. In the
morning she checks the chocolate supply,
at night checks her tongue in the mirror, Shiraz.
One of us is Invisible, twelve copies of her book
stacked on the nightstand. Arabic rug, Asian pillow,
Russian willingness to spill herself across
the sidewalk. She speaks in pirouettes, pretends
to draw back black scrim when entering a room.
Spoons ghosts at night, frightened by the way she
wakes, believes he’s still beside her.
bpNichol Award Announcement
I would very much like to thank my co-author Michael Blouin, my publisher above\ground press and anyone who helped to put our chapbook “let lie” on the shortlist for the bpNichol Award!