More than anything
I used to wish for barrenness: no human cadence cutting my shadow like Rachel or Elizabeth.
Annoying things—building messes, crying for ice cream or hugs and crawling sideways across the waxed wood
& reaching the spider eyeing them under the couch before shrieking. I used
to say I hope I never get them. There is enough of me in me. Enough of the past where it is. I used to pray
for a complicated disease, not too unspeakable, but feminine enough to take my chances
so I wouldn’t go back on my wish, & I wanted to be sick for other reasons, too, but they’re not
important now. The last night we go to dinner at a place that looks like stairs to a wet basement & you order
for me, chicken scaloppini, & I’m staring down
my clouded cheeks in the scratched brackish mirror that supposes me
Hellenistic in dimmed 20 watt, a pulsing grip on the beveled handle that could give hot or cold.
I wanted meat & bones, a shank, ossobucco, something I could tear
that might leave a puddle of more than white
sauce dripping with left over Riesling that sugar-masks the last dish. I could be holding
someone deep in me, an unformed idea, a moment
that hasn’t happened because we’re careful.
And I’m aware of how late it’s pressing, a 9 PM dinner to accommodate flight delays.
Greetings always last too long. The beginning--always more interesting than the end, you’re here.
Molly Lurie-Marino 's works have appeared in PANK, Chronogram, and Metazen. She lives in Pittsburgh, PA where she is a student at Duquesne University.
I used to wish for barrenness: no human cadence cutting my shadow like Rachel or Elizabeth.
Annoying things—building messes, crying for ice cream or hugs and crawling sideways across the waxed wood
& reaching the spider eyeing them under the couch before shrieking. I used
to say I hope I never get them. There is enough of me in me. Enough of the past where it is. I used to pray
for a complicated disease, not too unspeakable, but feminine enough to take my chances
so I wouldn’t go back on my wish, & I wanted to be sick for other reasons, too, but they’re not
important now. The last night we go to dinner at a place that looks like stairs to a wet basement & you order
for me, chicken scaloppini, & I’m staring down
my clouded cheeks in the scratched brackish mirror that supposes me
Hellenistic in dimmed 20 watt, a pulsing grip on the beveled handle that could give hot or cold.
I wanted meat & bones, a shank, ossobucco, something I could tear
that might leave a puddle of more than white
sauce dripping with left over Riesling that sugar-masks the last dish. I could be holding
someone deep in me, an unformed idea, a moment
that hasn’t happened because we’re careful.
And I’m aware of how late it’s pressing, a 9 PM dinner to accommodate flight delays.
Greetings always last too long. The beginning--always more interesting than the end, you’re here.
Molly Lurie-Marino 's works have appeared in PANK, Chronogram, and Metazen. She lives in Pittsburgh, PA where she is a student at Duquesne University.
