"Telepathic Love" by Tricia Louvar
2 poems by Brandon Melendez
"Theorem with Cashmere & Hummingbird"
age is not measured
in years but in baggage.
another fall gone & I drag
my body up the stairs. the stairs
line with people I love
who will not last the winter.
I want to believe if I don’t
reach the end no one dies,
but I know that’s not
how this works. my pockets
will keep filling with wax
& names. mercury & names.
& it will always be too late
to ask questions. I text a dead
number, anyway. ask it to split
another round of drinks. no one
answers. I say I’d settle for tea.
we could sit by the hearth & wrap
ourselves in all the sweaters
lovers have left behind. still,
no answer. I say fine. I’ll bury
myself in cashmere, alone.
I’ll empty my throat of language.
I don’t know which is heavier:
goodbye or the silence
that smothers it. please,
no more stairs. no more winters.
let me sit in sun. leave the window
open. let the hummingbirds land
on the sill for a moment
before they fly out of frame.
let me tell them
the vanishing point is a lie.
anyone who leaves
for one horizon or another
curves away & towards you
all at once.
in years but in baggage.
another fall gone & I drag
my body up the stairs. the stairs
line with people I love
who will not last the winter.
I want to believe if I don’t
reach the end no one dies,
but I know that’s not
how this works. my pockets
will keep filling with wax
& names. mercury & names.
& it will always be too late
to ask questions. I text a dead
number, anyway. ask it to split
another round of drinks. no one
answers. I say I’d settle for tea.
we could sit by the hearth & wrap
ourselves in all the sweaters
lovers have left behind. still,
no answer. I say fine. I’ll bury
myself in cashmere, alone.
I’ll empty my throat of language.
I don’t know which is heavier:
goodbye or the silence
that smothers it. please,
no more stairs. no more winters.
let me sit in sun. leave the window
open. let the hummingbirds land
on the sill for a moment
before they fly out of frame.
let me tell them
the vanishing point is a lie.
anyone who leaves
for one horizon or another
curves away & towards you
all at once.
"Every Time I See My Ex, Shit Gets Kafkaesque"
& there you are
on the opposite end
of the bus, eating
a blood orange. Overripe
& acerbic, the juice spills
onto the seat beside you.
You spot me & drop
the rotting fruit
into the soft
denim of your lap;
your mouth still
sticky with pulp.
The bus doors swing
open & as each person
files onboard
they burst
into a million horseflies
that fly straight
for your gums, still blood-
shot with feast. you vanish
beneath the fog
of wings. fog of warm
air, heated until the flies drop
dead, cooked alive
by their own greed. you stay
vanished & the only evidence
you were ever here
is a single rind;
a cluster of eggs
caught in my throat.
on the opposite end
of the bus, eating
a blood orange. Overripe
& acerbic, the juice spills
onto the seat beside you.
You spot me & drop
the rotting fruit
into the soft
denim of your lap;
your mouth still
sticky with pulp.
The bus doors swing
open & as each person
files onboard
they burst
into a million horseflies
that fly straight
for your gums, still blood-
shot with feast. you vanish
beneath the fog
of wings. fog of warm
air, heated until the flies drop
dead, cooked alive
by their own greed. you stay
vanished & the only evidence
you were ever here
is a single rind;
a cluster of eggs
caught in my throat.
Brandon Melendez is a Mexican-American poet from California. He is the author of 'home/land' (Write Bloody 2019). He is a National Poetry Slam finalist and two-time Berkeley Grand Slam Champion. A recipient of the the 2018 Djanikian Scholarship from the Adroit Journal, his poems are in or forthcoming in Black Warrior Review, Ninth Letter, Muzzle Magazine, the minnesota review, Sixth Finch, and elsewhere. He currently lives in Boston & is an MFA candidate at Emerson College.
Tricia Louvar lives in the Pacific Northwest and studied journalism, poetry, aesthetics, and documentary photography in college and beyond. She works in publishing as a visual artist and writer. Her work has appeared in the New York Times, Los Angeles Times, Brevity, Orion Online, Zyzzyva, and more. tricialouvar.com
Artist Statement: At a Saturday kaffeeklatsch, after splitting a piece of banana bread, I am the one nibbling pieces of its raw sugar left behind on the plate. Such an instantsummarizes my artistic impulses of focusing on the leftovers and the overlooked. I investigate the human condition and its relationship to impermanence with digital and analog tools.
Artist Statement: At a Saturday kaffeeklatsch, after splitting a piece of banana bread, I am the one nibbling pieces of its raw sugar left behind on the plate. Such an instantsummarizes my artistic impulses of focusing on the leftovers and the overlooked. I investigate the human condition and its relationship to impermanence with digital and analog tools.
