THREE POEMS by SAM MOE
Sorry I cried at dinner, do you still think I’m hot?
Yo sé que tú nunca vas a leer este so I’m going to address it to you, I hope that’s okay. There’s got to be another way but I have yet to figure it out. What I’m trying to say is I relapsed again. I know what you’re thinking—but what about healing? What about laying in fields, burning matches to fingertips, we shared grapes and everything was a laugh. Feed me and tell me I’m the most hilarious person in your life! Don’t think I’ll be able to leave this space so please, quédate. It’s going to happen again, can I count on you to arrive with a mason jar of apple juice? Can you make me toast in dawn. None of this it-will-be-okay then oh-no-it-won’t. ¿Tu vistes eso? The way the pipes were blushing with purple-pink light, we were submerged, the rest of the world bled away—anyways, sorry about the blood, I wish it wasn’t mine—and people kept telling me my bandages made me look silly. Here’s the thing. ¡Necesito que tu oigame! Necesito more bread, easy amber ales, champagne but pause the toast to announce to everyone you’re not walking out, the only way you’ll ever leave is if gators crawl from the swamps and tell you te vas, necesito amor, necesito forgiveness and honesty and honestly, please be kind to me. Been trying not to hand away the past like confetti but the floor is covered in translucent rainbow hexagons and all the butterflies represent my ex-girlfriends. I look at dinner in front of me but my stomach is a pit. Someone sings on the stage and all I think about are horses. What I mean to say is I’m daydreaming about the lucky horseshoe hanging above my late grandfather’s doorway. I meant I’m thinking about sugar spiders and glass webs, friends and phrases, no that’s not quite right, rocks in my mouth, shards in the hand again. What is it I’m trying to say? Thought about excusing myself to the restroom to throw up. Pensé de tí and like, I’m so freaking sorry about that it’s not even chistoso. Pero, what is funny these days? So sick of the scars. So sick of being sick, of my ill little stomach. Meant I’m thinking about putting myself in a small box and asking you to seal it with postal tape. Meant I’m thinking about la-la. Ribbon of pesto through the hottest cheese, want to eat the knife, want the rain to return and wash me into the drain. To be clear, what I’m trying to say is ostra, nuestro vida es complicado, told you I’d stop with the jokes but here I am, trying to tell you about menthol, rolls, herbs, water, pipe, birds, and even death. Truly, this is about the time I tried. Mentioned it earlier, on the grass. He’s up ahead—doesn’t remember. Los amo a todos ustedes too much. Vaya a comer, they said. Tu es tonta, they said. I’m tired of being tired. Please ignore the pleas. Please turn me into the little crescent moon in the corner of your phone.
Margherita Pizza
I guess what I’m trying to say is this. Christmas Eve and my stepsister is over. She hates me and I don’t know why. I gift her a small ceramic champagne bottle in a white box. The bottle is a charm and its neck is filled with gold and silver bells. She gives me nothing. I want to tell her not to worry, I can make myself even more unlovable. Instead I walk around the street near my childhood home in a sweatshirt and pajama pants. I wish the weather would have mercy. Back inside, I eat four everything bagels with cream cheese and drink punch made with whiskey, bourbon, and three bottles of champagne. I don’t normally drink. I don’t know how to soften. I tell stories of when I was younger and dating two different heroin addicts. My mother finds this story funny, now. How she thought I was on drugs, too, until she found out I wasn’t. no one asks how they fell into my life, no one knows I just needed protection. I didn’t’ realize protection also takes. Protection pushes you into the back seat of a car and you disassociate while looking at the moon. Anyway, my mother tells stories of how she wrote a letter to G about rearranging his face if he ever came near me again. I always wondered where he went. We used to eat pizza slices in his dark green Cadillac. He laughed when I stole thongs from department stores. He brought me to different houses to kiss all his friends. He was forty and I was seventeen. C was no different. For years after I tried to move on he would call me from jail. To be clear, I didn’t put him there. I rode the commuter rail to Boston and my body was covered in blood and no one asked if I was okay. I wish I had stories about salvation. I wish the women in my family loved me. I keep track of things they say at dinner, in a blue notebook that says crack is wack, a miniature photo of the Keith Harding mural. My cousin tells me my family thought I was bad news. The house is full of rainbow lights, pine needles, lies. I feel like one of those rich kids I used to be jealous of, the ones with so much family they practically spilled through the windows in the living room. Their kitchens were crowded with glossy dishes and medium-rare ribeye steaks, crisp pigs in blankets, cookies oozing with chocolate. We ate empanadas in foil and my clothing was full of holes. I don’t know where the scars went. I guess what I’m trying to say is this. I smile and eat margherita pizza and think about all the times I could have died and didn’t.
Coyote
Everyone tells me it’s the year for a stigmata. I text my friend who says if they knew, they wouldn’t be making this joke. I never touched my feet. I don’t know how to speak to you without talking about blood. Every day I think we’re getting closer. Every day I try to make a survival plan for what happens if you leave. It’s impossible for me to love someone without thinking of goodbyes. We spend all week talking about how I eat like a coyote, I’ve told three people now about the eating disorder, I wish I could forget. We joke about how I’m constantly eating scraps. I joke about how I’m constantly writing about blood. Some kind of twisted little wolf, coyote but half my body is eaten by rot, underneath the street lamps I am changing into a mutt, there is invisibility, there is this startling ribbon of bandage, the promise of June, will you stick around during the hot months, I don’t want a seam, I never learned how to scream. Evening in the room, lamp like a sun, today is enough, will tomorrow suffice? Cheese, crackers, chocolate, one bite of chicken, mostly rice, too much caffeine, I have not changed, six cucumber disks, two pieces of bread rolled into balls, bacon slice, lick clean the knife, will you get sick of the afternoon? Three chocolate covered almonds, mostly water, I dream I am someone who has excellent taste in beer, I dream I am excellent at human connection, I can endure the heat of love and not instantly think about harm, my disposition is an everlasting gobstopper, my character is a gummy worm, my arms are marble, overripe tomatoes, unfeeling, last of the season. When you’re not looking I am a glass of champagne, I am tucking myself into the cabinet while our friends toast the end of the semester. I sit among your plates and cups, think about loss. I think about green grapes. Bet you didn’t know coyotes can’t get keloids. Bet you didn’t know my doctor still thinks my arms are so soft.
Sam Moe (she/her) is the author of three poetry collections, including “Cicatrizing the Daughters” (FlowerSong Press, 2024), “Grief Birds” (Bullshit Lit, 2023), “Heart Weeds” (Alien Buddha Press), and the chapbook “Animal Heart” (Harvard Square Press, 2024). Her short story collection, “I Might Trust You,” is forthcoming from Experiments in Fiction (Winter 2024). You can find her on Instagram and X.