Highgate, or bust.
Okay so, I’m telling a story and the grass is dying.
The large eye is rolling and I’m plowing through
the large eye and the sun in your hand and what?
Do you hold the world or are you broadened in pain?
Okay so, I tried to wear your lipstick.
Your bedroom door was ajar and you weren’t there
and I went about making myself you.
Under your sheets I spilled your Campari and cried.
I went to church and the virgin looked phony
and I pretended to know Latin, all cogito and such.
The priest was cardboard and the body tasted good.
My uncle was a priest and then he wasn’t.
Like the holy spirit evaporated or got bored.
I went to the grocery store afterwards and thought
about dinner and then left. Once, I had a pair
of wings and then I sold them online for a rocking chair.
Once, I was afraid of dogs and then I got bitten and wasn’t
anymore. Later, I realized the whole thing was a lie.
But we did play chess on your floor and dyed my hair
the most horrible color but I let you. I liked your hands on
my scalp. I liked some of me on you.
You would think this is stupid. You liked my writing best when
it was about nothing concrete at all because otherwise
it sounded like you had just walked into the room and I was
scribbling down your words.
Okay so, Goya’s dog may be looking at the moon and
we just can’t see. Frank wrote about his friends and
everyone loved him for it. I wasn’t writing for you, it was for
the naked man in my head. I was just watching your eyes.
Maggie Farren is a writer currently based in Chicago, IL. Her work has been featured in VIBE, The Allegheny Review, The Beacon, The Back Bay Review, on poets.org, and by Pen & Anvil Press. She was also featured in Respect the Mic, an anthology of spoken word poetry.