Laura-Marie Marciano

Settlement

i asked if we could go
to the museum on a
saturday and you said
you'd rather go to the park.
this went on for six months
until i fell in love with you because
everyone else stopped calling.

after faking it for hours
our natural history
became a museum
and our bones laid
on display against
an assumed habitat
with bright orange Lego
parts and gum wrappers
in the aritifical dirt.

i tried to tell you that most
women preferred being
eaten out to penetration
and that the finger was just
as important as the penis.
you tried to tell me i should
date women, or that i wasn't
spiritual.

now we don't tell anything anymore,
our mouths glued shut, our limbs
tacked and shellacked, our heads dangling 
under a sign that reads: Settlers, 2012

 

#3

the first memory of a swimming pool is framed in white trash. the spray of water piercing jelly skin. the hair is coarse and wet and not like my cousin's hair. I bought a ran coat on a friday that everyone in the school yard owned by monday, a palette of pale pink and blue plastic on pavement. behind the garage grew a pine cone from a Christmas play, and now it is a tree that no one has ever trimmed. I cried in the rainbow sun of our backyard when kindergarten was over. hugging the leg of a stranger in a department store because I thought it was her and I thought I was safe. hiding amongst fresh smelling clothes in the basement and picking at the scabs on my ankles. my father always lied about my age for free entrance
to amusement parks. I was tiny and small. the rush of blood came quick between her legs. two weeks later her father died. then she held me for years and I must have cried at her depression. I pulled my dress up to show everyone, black and white cookies, kool aid, chlorine. can you imagine a time before chlorine? the dance floor was wooden. sequins from last year's recital cluttered in the cracks of it.
spanish mass was at 10:45 am. It still is. he could hear my voice above all the other voices. I would
hold my breath until he stopped yelling at her. the pink of my cheeks turned blue under water. I had a tweetie bird balloon taped to the wall and an angel taped to the ceiling. mama would curl my hair with
a hot iron until I resembled Shirley Temple. I was born curly and became straight and now I am curly again. there is a scar from the iron above my belly button. what was once our whole life is now only a
part.

 

#15

Hard boiled eggs were similar to gems on the kitchen table. Politics taste best with pancakes, forgive me for that. I drank the milk from the plastic carton. It was so cold I felt it below my breasts, swimming
to my stomach. Grandma called the house to ask where I was. It rained . when Third Eye Blind played
in Providence across from the mall. Nana's in the Pier has the best ice cream in the sea. I didn't mean to wear too much make-up. I'm sorry. I'm sorry you had to look at my face and smell me everyday. I'm sorry that you don't want me to get anywhere in life. I can't stay in the sad room forever. I can't let you believe that I am dieing. My aunt was rushed to the hospital and her children woke to another women
in the house. This is why I won't take lightly to infidelity, or maybe, fidelity is not at all possible. I will have dreams of making love to snow banks. I have been offered so many chances at freedom and none
at imprisonment. They were complaining about the cost of a cup of coffee but didn't know those who
had farmed the beans. I'm sorry for that. Rub aloe on my back and stick your tongue between my teeth
in front of the mirror. She is coming over to write her thesis paper away from her children. She's almost here. It's 1pm. The pink straps of my summer set against the slide of the play set was the meaning of everything. The rich people threw a party for us.

 

All of them

Touch me and know my heart is swelling
and it's better than sun on a boardwalk
or building a pillow fort in a hotel room
in Los Angeles.  I am the city,  you are all the angels.

Hold my thick thighs in your too small hands 
and kiss my ocean soaked purple lips.
I am alive under you, beside you,
in you, in spite of you, forever you.
i love frank o'hara and i love lisa frank
and I love you. 

Maybe we should stand in the shade. 
Maybe we should stand in the shade.
I feel like the man I am when
I protect you from the late rain.

 

All poems written by Laura-Marie Marciano