Potluck

 

T H I S    W E E K

The Theorist by Bo Fisher

 

Two Poems

 

Little blue city

 

This weekend I slept four in a futon & I picked the best spot
next to the best boy     because I knew he would hold me & he did

We named the mouse scratching on the hard wood floors
We named him Freddie & the boy kissed me
with his good hands on my blue face

Earlier I typed out letters on his typewriter
It got stuck & I said   I’ve broke your typewriter

& he ran to me & got on his knees & said
My Queen I love you
but if you break my typewriter
I will fucking kill you
but I hadn’t & later he kissed me
in the cold bed    in city drawn in such darkness
& that boy he loves everyone
Sometimes that’s okay with me sometimes it’s not 

 

 

code breaker

 

you have always spoken to me in code:

         when you lick the chocolate from your fingers

         when you smile & laugh & say "it's good"

         it means "it's okay to eat to-day."

 

         & when you giggle & say "i don't get it"

         you really, really do—you think that

         sometimes, it's useful to play the dumb

 

woman. & when you yell from upstairs

from the wheeling pitch, from no laughter

& no paint, i am no allowed to take sides:

i cannot pick my best friend, she's your claimed kin,

& you are not my mother but

 

you whisper daughter behind my back—

i am a caught fish, i dangle from the red line

that spools backward from your cancerous throat.

 

when you were well & we were not spies & there was no code

i washed your dishes & we made our own theater, pinned back curtains

of t-shirts, pillowcases, & size 0 jeans.

our audience had a sweet tooth so we gave them packets of gummy candies

to protect them from our quiet glances.

 

now you lie in a white bed.

your daughter says you are very small,

your tongue is swollen & you can't talk at all.

 

 

 

 

 

Stella Cabot-Wilson is from Colorado and Wyoming. She now lives in NYC.