Poetry Suite by Emily O’Neill
“for those who can’t swallow swords”
Poetry by Emily O’Neill
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Butchery For The Blue Moon
It happened only once, in the doorway
between December & new circumstance.
You befriended the spoons. Drank from the pot of cider
simmering on the stove. Sat out the argument. Paced the porch
without a coat. The cold cut deep enough to keep
you on your feet. Someone narrated your past
between hiccups. Someone else fell from a cab
with a massive suitcase. Another still
vomited down a storm drain. & you got your apology, though
it came with a tremor, with pupils fine as fork tines.
It continued on the shuffle home through almost snow.
He could not stop giving new names to his wrong,
shaking it by an ankle like a bird with throat cut.
Every feather, blown down the avenue.
Meat of the old year, naked, bloodless,
flesh still warm in your hands.
You almost left him. Almost did
more than just finger the knife.
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Mermaid
Stories grow up fast, like a fish. Old as turning
off the mind to watch what flickers onscreen
instead. Fight upstream to the place you want
having never touched it before. The quarry or lookout
point, the empty lot or open field or stranger's basement, an escape
from small anywhere town. Light matches. Test the law to see if it breaks
when you push. He says Italy, tells me dropping acid 3 times
a week at least, tells me cocaine bumps hidden in recessed filter
of a Parliament cigarette, traces my spine like he drew that line
himself. He'd run away to Baja, kill for coastline salt.
We are inland. A valley. Have to drive to the river. I open
like a fish. Gut, clean. October, it still smells like spawning
season. Same frantic blood. Leaves dance through puddles.
I say, "Pretty once.” There are cows nearby. A lot of corn.
His violin died in a flood but his hands act like they are still
swimming some moving floor. I shed my scales, float
to the coast. Kiss it good morning like a window
pane or a shoulder or a man I claim to know.
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No Older
I saw your girlfriend’s breasts on the internet.
They’re lovely—larger than mine—
& turned Sunday’s sun
milky. Only whiter
span, the sheets.
I closed my eyes
then the blinds
then the browser tab
after a harlot pause.
I meet you downtown. The entire city is an unfamiliar bar
with a TV-ready name Peculiar Pub, then
Kettle of Fish where I can’t catch
the barman’s eye. Taking my elbow,
you say You’re a good person.
We leave the tab open.
At worst, you’ve become a stranger. Muscular,
with a sudden smoking habit. But come on
closer: you’re no older
than the day we last fought.
Still the same boy I want
(unhealthily) to cling to.
History is ugly this way.
You take your cue & tell me the way to win is mirrors—
that there is a second felt to see & I imagine
our infinite reflections.
You haven’t played piano
in 3 months. Criminal—I should
borrow your square hand.
Draw you a new red face.
Let it match mine.
Each chalk line chasing the cue ball is clean
akin to watching a sink’s lip swell,
then overflow. I’m a good person.
I didn’t breathe on your neck
when we said goodbye
or steal your hand or blush at our bodies
stitched Siamese when the cab lurched
crossing the Manhattan bridge.
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Dear Peter
The upright laughs at my idiot hands.
You, a paper crane.
Mel dragged us to studio from the bus stop, took our picture.
We, pair of angry pigeons tacked to my wall.
Writing to say I walked away barefoot. Eyes aren't
the only sense. Your sneakers, their curb perch, Fort Lee.
Your car got towed;
you wouldn't
let me photograph
your face: Stop sign.
A box of strangers
for your lawn: (maybe one
is you)
Honeysuckle.
Forsythia. Clover
clipping. Newsprint,
charcoal, oil, turpentine.
Pierogi. Pineapple upside-down cake.
Lemon-stung fingers. Vodka on ice—
slice, squeeze—screwdrivers.
Paint cakes, dirty water
hot dogs, Neapolitan ice cream.
Sparklers. Mister
Softee. Fireworks,
backs pressed to the FDR—
I can't divine lonely from the glimpses I get. Each minor key, razor
wire. Manual transmissions stall & (I'll never
learn) shaking a Polaroid slows the reaction
that produces the desired image.
I found
your clumsy
teenage face.
We played a lot with light.
Every portrait a blur of palm.
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Salting The Earth
No oddity is more impossible
than Death's favorite child.
Grieving leaves you curiously
deformed, an ugly spectacular
for those who can't swallow swords.
Drinks are never strong enough.
People ask vulgar questions, vultures
circling tragedy. You crave a missing cat,
a barn burning, some other reason
to salt the earth. Break the mirrors.
Eat the glass. In seven years,
you'll outgrow the need for lullabies.
There are cornfields you've pissed in
west of here. Highways that know
your body better than your bed.
Fall in a city does not
smell the same. You prefer
the furrows of shit.
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Emily O'Neill is a proud Jersey girl who tells loud stories in her inside voice because she wants to keep you close. Her most recent work is present or forthcoming in Sugar House Review, Weave Magazine, Whiskey Island, Paper Darts, and FRiGG Magazine. She edits nonfiction for Printer's Devil Review. You can pick her brain here.