December 2012 - Comments Off

Symptoms

Julia Mounsey '13

Then you come in and punch me in the gut.
My lips are the color of my eyes today.
You bring me a gift, it’s a book, it’s about the War
that was supposed to End All Wars but didn't.
It feels oily, I am smitten with it. I am sick,
spotted. Fabulously bedridden. You love it.
In the afternoon I sit down. I write a letter.
“Dear Trench Mouth,” I write. It’s a dirty letter,
it’s full of acrobatic nudes and ways to get in.
In bed I always feel like I am on the end of every fork –
“Dear Trench Mouth, I’m trying okay?”
My tongue is a warbunker full of skunk pits
and just yesterday I traded mommy’s twenty
for a gram of the stuff. The dealer had a name
but I didn’t say it. I don’t like to be called
anything but young. Admit it, you ate my letter.
It was oily, you were smitten. My skin is the color
of my hair today and I am not a blond.

Published by: in Poetry, Volume 69: Issue 1

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