Poetry

Me in Paradise

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 POETRY


Me in Paradise by Brenda Shaughnessy      




I’m Perfect At Feelings

so I have no problem telling you

why you cried over the third lost

metal or the mousetrap. I knew

that orgasms weren’t your fault

and that feeling of keeping solid

in yourself but wanting an ecstatic

black hole was just bad beauty.

Certain loves were perfect

in the daytime and had every

right to express carnally behind

the copy machine and there are

no hard feelings for the boozy

sodomy and sorry XX daisy chain,

whenever it felt right for you.

And when the moment of soft

levitation with erasing hands

made you feel dirty, like

the main person to think up love

in the first place, I knew that.

It’s okay, you’re an innocent

with the brilliance of an animal

stuffing yourself sick on a kill.

Don’t, don’t feel like the runt alien

on my ship: I get you. I know

the dimensions of your wishing

and losing and don’t think you

a glutton with petty beefs. But

even I, who know your triggers,

your emblematic sacs of sad fury,

I understand why the farthest fat trees

sliver down with your disappointment

and why the big sense of the world,

wrong before you, shrugs but

somewhere grasps your spinning,

stunning, alone. But you have me.



     

  






©2000
Brenda Shaughnessy and Nerve.com   





 POETRY





Me in Paradise

Oh, to be ready for it, unfucked, ever-fucked.

to have only one critical eye that never

divides a flaw from its lesson.

To play without shame. To be a woman

everyone can screw, who feels only

the pleasure of usefulness and who turns

so much anguished release into a buried

treasure for the future to relish, to buy

new tights for, to parade in fishboats,

lick the final sweat off my neck. To hope

without fear of hope, not holding the hole,

I will catch the superbullet

in my throat and feel its astounding force

with admiration. Absorbing its kind

of glory. I must be someone

with very short arms to have lost you,

to be crying to the pawnshopkeeper

eking out a living in my head,

which pounds with all the clarity

of a policeman on my southernmost door.

To wish and not jinx it: to wish

and not fish for it: to wish and forget it.

To ratchet myself up with hot liquid

and find a true surprise.

Prowling the living room for the lightning

that brings my slow purity back.

My blood-smeared knife of a tongue.

To miss you without being so damn cold

all the time. To hold you without dying otherwise.

To die without losing death as an alternative.

To explode with flesh, without collapse.

To feel sick in my skeleton, in all the serious

confetti of my cells, and know why.

Loving you has made me so scandalously

beautiful. To give myself to everyone but you.

To luck out of you. To make any other mistake.



  

     






©2000
Brenda Shaughnessy and Nerve.com