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In the language of handkerchiefs // there’s really nothing // I don’t want
I’m glad to be paid in gold // when the devil beats his // you know what
if you think it’s indecent // for a body to fan open iridescent // gird your gaze
because honey I’m throwing up // my kerchief like a flare-gun shot // watch me
unskirt a frosted muffin // top me with sprinkles // I’m flashing red-yellow-green-go
you’re the stallion and I’m the mare // smear my queer into the mirror // now you
are the mare and I am // the stale smell in the restroom stall // and you’re an all-
you-can-eat buffet // let me say your eyes are the most beautiful // urinal cake blue
blew as in the past tense of blow // blow as in coke even though you // suck it up
buttercup and butterscotch // a man named Scott wants his Scotch // filthy gorgeous
or maybe that’s a martini // a man named Martin a man named // who knows what
who knows what it means to pluck roses // from my chest // using just his teeth
and sometimes yes blood // which is thicker than water // I know something thicker
it’s called incest // when a nephew makes his uncle say uncle // say pee say cock
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Poetry from NER 39.3
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Alison C. Rollins, born and raised in St. Louis city, currently works as a librarian for the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Her poems have appeared in American Poetry Review, Poetry, TriQuarterly, Tupelo Quarterly, and elsewhere. A Cave Canem and Callaloo Fellow, she is also a 2016 recipient of the Poetry Foundation’s Ruth Lilly and Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Fellowship. Her debut poetry collection, Library of Small Catastrophes, is forthcoming (Copper Canyon Press, 2019).
New poetry from NER 39.2
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Heather Christle is the author of four poetry collections, most recently Heliopause (Wesleyan University Press, 2015). She lives in a small village in Ohio.