Poetry Suite by Lauren Elma Frament
“this secret garden, sacred dirt
of my sex”
Poetry by Lauren Elma Frament
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In the Dream
“they say
live fast die young
leave a good looking corpse.”
—Bucky Sinister
I always die in my twenties. at sixteen,
I said I wanted to die by thirty.
I didn't want to get old.
I never get to see how I die, but I know
my Death is attractive because I am always wearing
a black dress & red lips, & I don't get dolled up
for just anyone. Death holds my hand, tells me
how tragic I look. Starlet, he says. Lolita.
he looks like a Hollywood movie. tells me to come
to LA & I do. every time. when we get there,
it's always everything I want. I never leave
because waking feels too much like house lights
coming up. Starlet, he says. Lolita.
says put on a good show. says the curtains
are already drawing. says look into the spotlight
& pray to your god.
+ + +
Upon my return from LA,
Manchester takes me out. she can't offer
five-star or feed my hunger for Versace
& fine lace, but she tries.
shows me tacky velvet & cutoffs—
these relics of my childhood.
she hands me the tab, proposes
by the Merrimack. no ring
in a pretty box. no precious stone
shining & new—just a ball gag
& a wedding veil in either hand,
tells me to choose.
don't they mean the same thing?
+ + +
Hometown, 1991
a retelling
the barking dog is tied up outside.
the trees keep secrets.
the neighbours keep to themselves.
the barking dog paces outside.
the mothers are at work.
the fathers are away.
the dog growls at a strange man.
the man holds a shotgun.
the man believes he is holy.
the shotgun is a crucifix.
the dead dog is tied up outside.
+ + +
Hometown, 2010
we're drunk, the four of us. Amber tells us
about Lovers Lane, a dirt-road backwoods
paradise where the boys fix their motorcycles
& the girls wear bikinis even in the winter.
I do not tell them I grew up in this town,
do not tell them of the bicycle rides
to find this hidden grove of my sex,
the one who escaped. we crawl into the Civic
& Amber drives until there are no more streetlights,
tires kneeling in the dirt—a rumbling prayer.
the street sign shines, neon oasis even in the dark.
she parks the car & we get out, the four of us. walk
toward it, this light of the Virgin.
this leg-shaped lamp. Amber disappears,
returns with a shovel. no one asks
where it came from, but we all know
why it's here. she gives the post one good strike
& it's down. we flock around the sign, kettle
of vultures in the dark. this radiant, drunken dark.
this glowing street sign. this reminder of discovery.
this secret garden, sacred dirt
of my sex. it looks exactly
how I remember.
lauren elma frament is a poet & aspiring mortician from Manchester, NH. Her work appears in Drunk in a Midnight Choir, Borderline, & nin journal - & is forthcoming in the anthologies We Will Be Shelter (Write Bloody Publishing) & Again I Wait for This to Pull Apart (FreezeRay Press). She likes baking pies, cross stitching, & standing in the front at punk shows.