I Will Blow This Poem Up

With a fire in the belly stitched from stars
who might, who knows, begin or end it, always
these decisions– Happy New Year, this is the first
verse who’s made it to paper today, the third
penned in my head– earlier, I noted

the way speech is a kind of line I draw
some days, the words creep
along, little wheeled trains, exhausted, the fat chuff

of my life. I wondered what that had to do
with that sad, bald, sexist fool trying to write
poems, trying to sleep with me & nearly every friend
I have who writes, I saw his sad apartment
lined in books, the Kama Sutra laid out & winking
on the coffee table, I wondered if he ever felt his words
go heavy in his mouth, fall out: silver coins

he pays those beauties, their lips like parting
sparrows, hair like braided wheat, they clasp his words
inside their open hands & warm them. They retreat. He unbinds
his lonely cock, unbidden, from
the trap his mouth has woven– god in god

in heaven– here are women and men bound like chain link
fences writing in a glory that never gives way–

the opulence!
the rubies in the palms!
the hidden cunts that thrust like cocks!–

for fuck’s sake, where is that poem I conjured
with that fat English woman’s
fat English novel speaking to me
from my lap?

Spring from your locked box!
Be the woman throwing light
upon the bodies.

Poem, you flay a trapped tapestried Marsyas
forever while a Countess snores; a servant catches a wink
of his anguished eye. You crawl inside

a jukebox & fetch me
downstairs to the bar

You are Roger Reeves in his skinny jeans, delicately
showing me, drink in hand, why I should give this hustle up–

You Lie
You Lie In A Split Atom of Detail

threads gleam like discs of fat pearl
laughter from a woman
still a girl
twirling husky smoke
from her throat– yellow silks
a spoiled whore
would flaunt–

There is a moat surrounds me, but listen, there are ways
to stick a pin in the cloaks we think confine us
from the next wide, frozen world: today, my son, barely

three, pointed to our discarded Christmas tree
which earlier wore an angel on its spindly top:

Next year, that tree will wear a star I pluck from the sky

he said, in all seriousness, at the start of this poem.


About evanduyne

I'm assistant professor of writing at Stockton University, where I'm also affiliated faculty in the Women's, Gender, and Sexuality Studies program. I work on Sylvia Plath, contingent faculty, and creative writing around trauma and domestic violence.
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