Crafts with Blunt Edges
I cut you out, like those paper dolls
always crooked or the gingerbread
house walls that never stuck no matter
how much icing or gobs of gum drops I used.
I slashed you away like all the others—
the ones I walked away from brisk
with a clip, no lingering
kisses or wondered what ifs. It’s always
been easy to leave, to turn my back
and trust that my shoulder wings
are enough to lift me above the wreckage,
Beyond their reaches and powers
I never cared enough to test.
December 2012
I knew it was you, your buzz
always shook my nightstand
in a way like no other. It had been six months,
and by now the silence had grown so fat
it had no choice but to burst. Days to Christmas,
one week ‘til New Year’s (as if some arbitrary clock
could stop us) and hours before
I left the country for good. The furniture was sold,
the roommates gone silent after suckling up
deposits and fees, but our memories
I shipped to my mother’s down south.
How appropriate, that five in the morning
text. Why didn’t you just slap me? You
had no idea about the other man, the one
way ticket to Costa Rica. I was up
immediately, and of course I forgave it all.
How could I not? The string that twisted
my heart to yours felt the pull of your words,
the change in the tempo. I couldn’t
pretend I hadn’t read the words any easier
than I could fake straight teeth. Both
are a part of me, deformations and so clearly
begging to be fixed and fawned over.
Despair-ity
I’m embarrassed to say where I came from.
That I didn’t always know
how to order a martini, eat roe
from my fist. I’ve gotten pretty damned
good at it. Faking it, playing make believe,
dress up and pretend. For that,
I practiced (I mean, I’m a woman—
and what else are Barbies good for?). Still,
what if someone finds out? My defenses
crouch close to boiling over, hungry
to pounce—claw at those probing faces.
Like when I get laughed at for my bad
French accent. Called out when I don’t know
the difference between tray and recessed
ceilings or what the hell wainscoting
may be. The quiet one, the weird one,
the one who’s always watching. Hell,
yes I’m always watching. Observing
like a solid method actor. How else
am I supposed to know what to say?
How to hold a snifter or which cheek
to kiss first? You should know,
it’s exhausting. Terrifying. Smothering
and so overbearingly lonely
way, way over here.
Jessica Mehta is an Aniyunwiya multi-disciplinary artist and poet. Her work includes 15 books, mostly of poetry, and she currently serves as the Project Manager at Red Planet and the poet-in-residence at Hugo House. Learn more at www.thischerokeerose.com.