FOUR POEMS by BEE LB
cocktail crush
golden age’s golden hour. silk dripping
over rouged knees, flapper on life magazine but with angel wings.
absinthe burnt over brown sugar. little tart, lot of kick, hint
of sweet. the first pearl necklace paired with pearl panties,
hot and drying against sweat-sick skin, cold and sliding between bare lips.
like the slide of a sharp blade beneath skin, gutting
then skinning then drying and laying
in front of the fire the fur of a once-breathing thing.
my crush wants to be wrapped in your skin, surrounded by your body heat,
coated in your blood like bathing in milk.
like miner’s lungs after exhausting searches for diamonds;
like the diamonds, fruitless but still shining in the light of wealth.
a gold digger, pocket looker, petty theft, shoplifter.
my eyes catch on bright things, catch just the same on my shiny reflection.
mink around a throat, too-warm, too close, too many
consequences to be worth the look at beauty or even its standards.
like baby in bringing up baby, domesticated before it matters, a wild thing
when it counts. spoiled thing when i consider myself object, neglected thing
when i realize i’m abject. i lick the pity from my crush-turned-reality’s tongue
taste their spit, trace my own from ankle up to the bottom of their bloomers.
desire keeps best when it’s stoked, flesh burns sweet when it’s charred by the poker.
desire keeps longest when it’s left as a guess, but bodies wither bitterly in the absence of touch.
when the waning’s done, stick my crush and i both
in a mirrored casket, don’t wait for me to die, let me run out of air,
i want to stare at our reflections decaying into one.
antithetical
as calvin once said, moments suck.
as i told my therapist mere hours ago, i could be in my body but
my body hurts. moments suck. there is a future in which i’m walking the concrete lip
of a pool filled with magic pennies, & someone calls out my name, & as i turn
to look, i fall, a perfect splash, & i come out of the water soaking &
gasping & a shutter goes off & i turn to look, eyes wide & lashes dripping,
& the camera goes off again & i ask, did you get it? did it look good?
& the shock at my name was genuine & the fall unplanned but the moment is perfect
because i imagine it so, again & again & again. can anyone tell me
if there’s a pool like that in detroit? that’s where i imagine it.
after i began imagining it (but before it will take place, of course)
i walked through the lamp-hazed night, crossing a city i did not belong to
looking for a bar i would not find, & stopped to dip my toes in a different fountain
than the one i dreamt of. there were pennies in the bottom but they were not magic
because they were not mine. today i saw 11:11 on the clock, thought about wishing,
remembered the promise to myself that i wouldn’t until my last wish had come true,
& hushed myself. with my toes in the flowing water, i didn’t have to hush
myself. i asked do you think i’ll get an infection from this water? & my heart said
from the mouth of my friend i don’t know, do you have any cuts or sores? & i did not,
but i still took my feet from the water, though i wanted to wade in, & hung them to dry
on the sill of the pool. but, as calvin said, moments suck. the police came,
told us the park was closing, a public park! closing! while we were in it! & we said okay,
& i bent to wrap the straps of my sandals & a boy came, a young boy,
lugging a blue cooler, the kind with a textured white top & a sleek white handle
that nonetheless hurt like hell after holding for too long.
he said we could buy water for $2 & it was ice cold & i was sweating off the last
of my molly or maybe just the middle but i was so grateful i could’ve wept,
only that would’ve used up water i didn’t have, & so i frantically tried to venmo him
from my empty bank account, & told him to tell me his code & i’d screenshot it
& send the money tomorrow, i promise, only the cops came
& reminded us with a sharper voice & i don’t know if it’s because we’d already been warned
or because the young boy was brown & selling something but
he didn’t let me screenshot, just tried to send the money through again
& he said keep it, keep it, & i said i’ll send it, i promise, & he asked for a hug
which i gave though i didn’t want to, & i never did get that boy his $2
which was meant for his football team’s uniforms but i do hope they wear his favorite colors
& i hope he got whatever it was he wanted from my hug
& though i could taste the chemicals in the water it was so cold i still drank it
& believe it or not, not one thing from that night infected me
but joy. but, as calvin said, moments suck. & the moon hid.
& my body ached. & we got lost. & i had to pee.
& i didn’t want to go where they wouldn’t serve me a drink.
so we walked & got lost & walked & i swear, our arc was so big we did make a circle,
& it sucked, that circle, & we ended in a comedy club & i begged
to use the bathroom when i could’ve just walked in, & i took pictures in the mirror
before i washed my hands & my heart spoke from my friend’s mouth & said i see you
& i jumped or my heart jumped or my body jumped with me & my heart in it
& the cold water on my hands felt better than the cold water i’d drank but
it wouldn’t get warm & the soap left a film & yes, moments suck.
& when we went back up, because the bathroom was underground, i had to check
the contents of my blood to see if i’d been poisoned by my body,
& a stranger walked up & something in his mind enticed him to both offer us drinks
& call us ladies though the bar was closed & neither of us are anything approaching a lady
& i said to him, i wish, the bar is closed, i’m just checking my sugar & he said oh, i hope it’s good
& i said i hope so too & though it wasn’t, i wasn’t poisoned, & though that could’ve been a win,
it was instead a moment, which, as we know, suck. so we left with no drinks & the whole night ahead
of us but neither of us could drive & at my big age of twenty five instead of calling a cab i tried
my boyfriend who was busy with his son & then i tried my brother who was busy
playing video games & then, so dejected i could cry (& later did) i called my mother
who brought her husband to drive us & my car home. & because this has become less a poem
& more a collection of moments, i’ll stop here to tie it up for you, to thank your indulgence
with the best bow i’m able to tie, which is just: i am sure the pool i dream of in detroit is real
just as sure as i am i will eventually fall into it at just the right moment to be captured
by a lens of my choosing just as i am sure on the twenty-minutes turned two-hour drive home
(thanks to the demoness herself, tswift opening a tour on the same night as pride, homophobic queen
of everyone’s dreams but mine), i cried enough tears to fill that pool but because it is not empty
i swallowed them, salt & all, & cursed the bitch & chose the playlist & winced
every time red flashed too soon for my mother to notice & eventually, after i ran out of moments
the night ended, & i slept. & i dreamt. & it was of something
other than the pool, which, for the purposes of this poem, really sucked.
gold > silver < pink
for a while i dripped gold. morning light
lining the corners of my eyes. gold chains slipping
over collarbones. gold-wrapped cleavage, you looked at me
like a gift to pry open. downgraded now to silver.
waist chains and chokers and shiny heels needing lifts.
i’m the line you toe-over before calling a draw.
i’m the ref’s whistle and the shout from the stands.
i’m the back against metal down below. i’m blowing
bubbles by concession, flipping my skirt for the crowd,
straddling the shoulders of the star player.
i’m living the teenage dream. if it’s barbie’s world
and we’re all just living in it, i’m barbie pink.
rent a malibu from a fellow fruit, whine when it’s silver.
wear slut hoops from spencers, six inch platforms
and bambi knees. forget to paint my face or pull my hair.
beg for less than i deserve. skirt the cop slipping molly
into squirt, stick my tongue out to lick a lolly for a selfie
with my bestie. i shazam abba unrepentantly,
get a number i’ll never use, use my body to inspire jealousy,
slip and fall into desperation’s domain. use my hips like a threat
my lips like a challenge. pressure a boy i don’t like
into something i don’t want. roll my shorts to show ass,
double down on nip slips in the club,
shout my voice hoarse saying yes
when i clearly mean no.
identity markers
to most people i’m the blonde bitch
with pretty privilege, though that’s an assumption
on my part as much as theirs.
i should be known as the bitch that makes endless assumptions
but i don’t know if i am. i am a walking contradiction.
a study in put-on personality, an endless vibe-check.
i’m annoying, especially when i think i’m being funny.
everyone tells me i’m argumentative but i’m not
i’m just right. i don’t need you to understand
but i desperately want you to. once you understand i can’t stand you.
i was once called transparent and took it as an insult.
my partner started to question if he should trust me. he shouldn’t
trust me but not for the reason he thinks. i don’t trust
anyone but i’ve been called overly trusting and couldn’t deny it.
i carefully craft how i want to be seen and then wonder
why i’m always backed into a corner.
to potential partners i’m ring-worthy. to partners
i’m ex-worthy. to ex-partners i’m
the crazy bitch, but i’m never the crazy ex.
to my friends i’m the fun one, the good time, the never says no.
to cashiers i’m overly friendly, overcompensating
for the unforgivable sin of being a customer.
to my therapist i’m accommodating,
to my doctor i’m unaccommodating, to the pharmacist
i’m over-medicated, to myself i’m desperate
-ly under-medicated.
BEE LB (they/them) is a living poet, or at least the facsimile of one; a porcelain pierrot with a painted face. they collect champagne bottles, portraits of strange women, and diagnoses. they've been published in G*Mob, MOODY, Landfill, and The Racket, among others. their portfolio can be found at twinbrights.carrd.co and their workshops can be found at poetryasplay.carrd.co.