Two Poems
by Michaela Mayer
UNDARK
women in working rows: a soft green tint
glow the teeth and lips. a watch you could read
on a starless night, painted with nimble fingers
using brushes wetted on the mouth. return home
with an emerald grin. peals of laughter, a painted
face, the diffuse light of sickness coming through
slowly. her jaw gone. drop waist dresses
at parties to outshine the hostess,
a laugh to flash hardness beneath soft flesh.
dentition the first to go, to become dark gaps
in her mouth. then the settlement. thousands
of dollars, as if the company’s green could replace
what was lost. then the grave, the gentle light.
a field, a drainage ditch, a suburb. all that remains.
HYPERLEXIC HOBBYHORSE
A Pastiche of “Lady Lazarus”
I have done it again.
Every year, in the fall,
I manage it—
a sort of walking miracle, my skin
bright as a lightbulb,
my left foot
tangling the right,
my face asemic—a scribbled-
-upon napkin.
Peel off the paper,
O my loves.
I know I terrify—
the raw pulp behind my eyes,
the sadness, the inner child pleading;
my sickly breath I wish would vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the fear
my animal panic brings will be
at home in me
yet I am a smiling woman.
I am almost thirty.
And like Cassandra I have too much to tell.
This is my third try—
what a trash
to annihilate our friendship.
What a million filaments.
The Twitter crowd shoves in to see
me unwrap myself; dumb thing thinks she’s a tease.
Gentlemen, ladies, others:
these are my skinned hands,
skinned knees.
I may be flesh and curve;
nevertheless, I am the same identical girl.
The first time it happened I was twice twelve.
It was an accident.
I meant to rock us through
and not hurt anyone.
It was a fool’s errand.
The second time I reached out
and tried to apologize.
I did an awful job.
Apology
is an art, like anything else.
I wish I could say I did it well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
It’s never enough to do it and mean well.
It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.
It’s the compulsive comeback
in broad day
to the same place, same face, same brute
amused shout:
“An idiot!”
That knocks me out.
There is a charge
for these voyeuristic scars,
there is a charge
for my irritant heart—
it goes and goes.
And there is a charge,
a very large charge,
for my need, my love, my rawness—
an honest-to-god tweak of my nose.
So, so, my friends.
So, misunderstood ones.
I am my opus, my valuable,
my sad little poems
that end in a shriek.
I turn and burn.
I’ve overestimated your great concern.
Stupid, stupid, I hurt myself.
Memes, sorrow—there is nothing there;
my self-abasement,
my private shame,
my own last name.
Dear you, and you,
I see you seeing me.
Out of the shame I rise
with my auburn hair,
and I eat words like air.
Michaela Mayer (she/her) hopes to excavate hidden stories through verse. When not coping with hypervigilance she writes poetry, the occasional essay, and can be found on Instagram under the handle @mswannmayer55. Her writing can be found on her website (eurydicespeaks.net) and in multiple online journals. She has a PDF chapbook out with Fahmidan.
COLD SIGNAL 