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Fall 2013 Poetry

Victoria McArtor

AS YOUTH CONCLUDES

The best advice I can give about falling
is about landing, the darkness says.
Darkness does not overtake light,
the clock says. Sounds of laugher
fading way, the season says. The body
doesn’t know how to lie, the lie says.
Misremembering is in itself revealing,
the lie says. I can only be reduced
to archives, alchemy says. I can only
know you through a combination
of letters, the unknown says. Is this
how it feels to die, the paradox asks?

There is little to nothing to say—
death can be throwing away love letters,
entering an exaggerated experience,
the last bite of an ice cream sandwich.

SEE ALL THE PEOPLE AND PARTS LAUGHING

I.

Was it jetsetter or temptation?
And me, in the bathroom, searching
for the shade of lipstick he liked.
I want my ribcage to fit
inside his hands
the way he holds a book.
Want him
to rub my earlobe, a way
to dog ear this idea.
If only I could find—
was it Hemingway’s fling?
I’m sitting tall on his
lap, lace my fingers
downward, cusp palms, say
here is the church
erect my pinky fingers,
here is the steeple
I unfold,
open the doors.
Was it messiah inspired?

II.

He takes my red lips, hip
bone, curve in the bridge
of my foot. Shanghai express?
He begins a conversation
with these parts, talks Coltrane
and Stella, begins with lies
only later to include actual events,
begins to laugh at my trick, says
there’s something else I can do
with my hands. I’ve painted
too much albatross on my lips
I can’t ask about all the other
hip bones scattered, laughing,
across the floor.

________________________________________

Victoria McArtor is currently pursuing a MFA at Oklahoma State University while also pursuing her securities licenses while selling life insurance and annuities with Mutual of Omaha. Her poems have appeared in H_NGM_N and PMS poemmemoirstory.

2 replies on “Victoria McArtor”

[…] The best advice I can give about falling is about landing, the darkness says. Darkness does not overtake light, the clock says. Sounds of laugher fading way, the season says. The body doesn’t know how to lie, the lie says. Misremembering is in itself revealing, the lie says. I can only be reduced to archives, alchemy says. I can only know you through a combination of letters, the unknown says. Is this how it feels to die, the paradox asks? There is little to nothing to say— death can be throwing away love letters, entering an exaggerated experience, the last bite of an ice cream sandwich. Originally published by: The Boiler […]

[…] He takes my red lips, hip bone, curve in the bridge of my foot. Shanghai express? He begins a conversation with these parts, talks Coltrane and Stella, begins with lies only later to include actual events, begins to laugh at my trick, says there’s something else I can do with my hands. I’ve painted too much albatross on my lips I can’t ask about all the other hip bones scattered, laughing, across the floor. Originally published by: The Boiler […]