Potluck

 

T H I S    W E E K

The Theorist by Bo Fisher

 

Three Poems


The Champagne of Teas
 

I steep myself in myself like darjeeling.
This is how I blush, 
I am so myself. 

This is how I move. 
A ghost becomes a girl 
becomes a stranger 

becomes someone 
at the party 
in the other room. 

I feel like maybe 
I can belong here 
in my hair’s daydreams

and the smell of whiskey
and my newly forming bruise.
I take a break so

the mirror can 
give me back my face. 
My face says

remember what we talked about
simple wishes
saying hi how are you

and later 
tea that tastes like dew
and mountain air.

 

 

 

 

Still Life
 

Have you ever been
A lost and found box

With irregular and 
Porous borders?

I saw Cezanne’s
Still Life With Apples

And a Pot of Primroses
And now I am a different shape

Entirely. Talking about 
A painting 

In a poem 
Is like being born

In the nineties
And then 

Going to Montreal
And calling someone 

From a phone booth.
I look different 

In this picture
I tell them. 

The world 
Looks different. 

I am looking 
At apples and primroses

And I have never been 
So ecstatic.

 

 

 

 

Unraveling
 

Monday wakes up and pushes me 
out of bed and down the stairs and
out the door on a ticking bike to last year
that makes my soul motion sick to think of,
of the golden crunch steps on leaves and
the smoke rising and disappearing like the 
thoughts behind your eyes as they blink
a million snapshots of me,
and I blink a million of you,
before it all unravels like a scarf
and leaves September like a beauty mark
on the face of last year.

 

 

 

 

Kelly Corinda lives in New York and writes poetry. Recent work can be found in The Sugar House Review, Dum Dum Magazine, and smoking glue gun.