Poetry
Maya Jewell Zeller
A New Kind of Romance
Because I could still taste the lavender
candy, I thought it might be a good day
to take the Dodge down
to the beach, pay a dime or two
to look through binoculars
at a seagull caravanning around the purplish
clouds. A new kind of romance:
me, the bird, the syrupy disc, the guilt
of driving. I thought about the article
in this week’s paper, the gas crisis,
and you, standing at the counter
deciding what to buy for me. I’m glad
you chose these, like a bee’s hidden
grove in a paper bag, before you went off
down every road in America
to find yourself. You said you needed
a new irritation, something you could rub
your cold feet against until they chafed
hot again. Somewhere you could walk
by a river, scratch up your legs
on ditched glass, berry vines.
As for me, you thought this sand
was enough. But I’ve been thinking
a lot lately while I shred your old
notes. I want friction, too,
a new kind of swelling tide. Something
still in its wrapper. Something
that doesn’t cost a dime.
I Set My Alarm for 2:52, but They Had the Time Wrong for Us Out Here in the West
What I wanted was your bruise-heavy
hands on me, not a cold night
drowning itself in my throat.
I woke too late to see much of the eclipse.
The moon was dragging itself out
from the earth’s shadow, dirty,
like a scab. Red like wet blood
on a white plate. They’ll tell you
it happens once every fifty-some years,
or maybe it’s less, I just made that up;
there might be an eclipse once a year
or something, I don’t spend as much time
staring at the moon as I used to, when my chest
was always caving in on me every night,
when I could feel every vein shucking
its minerals along my spine, every nerve
and endorphin, watched the trees move
so each leaf became a hand, green and reaching
to punch down the sun.