Kiki Petrosino was born in Baltimore and received her BA from the University of Virginia. She spent two years in Switzerland teaching English and Italian at a private school, after which she earned graduate degrees from both the University of Chicago and the Iowa Writers' Workshop. Poems have appeared in FENCE, The Iowa Review, Forklift, Ohio, and elsewhere. She lives in Iowa City and is the author of Fort Red Border (Sarabande, 2009).
OR
After Thomas Sayers Ellis
Or oreo, or worse.
Or spork. Or smorgasbord.
Or tender lure of colored blood
or centaur.
Or Moorish curve of orchid.
Or fork-scraped pate, or orphic word.
Or minor saint in darkened
corridor.
or what remains of cordwood.
Or touch of orchard wind—
Or taste of swords.
Or path, or means
for dragging ore from earth.
Or earth, where we were built
& bound—
Or elemental source. Or
hopeful spore. Or promontory
light. Or oarsman on the brink
of shore.
Or shorn of slang & char.
Or full of orbits, full of doors
Or drawers of trees & tongues
to claim:
It was like April in Andalucía.
Or, Chapter One: I am born.
THIS WILL DARKEN THE CABIN
Halfway through my plate of tiger prawns
Robert Redford returns from the cockpit tour.
Such a face, he says. Were you this soulful as a child?
He tips my chin & slides my headset back.
I've been listening to the pilots marking weather
in their code talk. Right now we're at two-five-five
knots, heading straight into the soup above
Las Vegas. Our pilot has a clean, grey voice—
like creosote or silverware. He's just said advise.
He's just said preparing. Redford eases
into his seat, folding one knee
over the other. He rolls his double brandy
in a plastic snifter. The cuffs of his soft green shirt
are pushed into his elbows. I had some soulful ways, I guess.
I tuck into a small ramekin of green gage plums
soaked in cream & rice vinegar. At the edge
of my vision, Redford lifts his spoon, considering
the loose pyramid of Asian jungle fowl
on his tray. I pick up a tiny package
of salt. Know what I used to do with this?
I reach across Redford's lap, taking a lengthy swallow
of brandy from his glass. At night, I'd eat this.
It was a thing. I'd pour a whole bunch
in my mouth, & then I'd chew until my tongue opened.
For the first time, I notice how it's very quiet
here in First Class. I drain the brandy, listening to the hum hum
of the cabin lights against my gulps. Below us, Las Vegas
is an orange watch glass someone shattered. I think
about the neon people down there, the funny cowboy with tubes
of brown light for a ten-gallon hat, & I think how hard it must be
to make brown neon, & how we still need science.
After a moment, I feel Redford take the snifter
from my hand. He lowers it into the circular depression
in his tray. The plastic hazes where my palm
has touched. Redford reaches over, snapping
my tray into the seatback. Then he finds the place
where my safety belt catches. He gently pulls until
the belt tightens, low & quiet on my hips. He keeps his palm
on the buckle & I settle back. What made me, made me.
Above our heads the reading lights go out.
VALENTINE
Sorry, but I just don't love you
more than Darwinism.
More than: Farmers take their animals to feed
upon the alpine balds.
I don't love you more than this cheese slice
which tastes of Swiss feet.
I don't love you more than falling off the
button lift, or haul lines,
or deciding whether peanut M&Ms are treats
or snacks.
I don't love you more than old darknesses
and sipping from thimbles.
I just don't love you.
I just don't love you more than pizza.
Or the final scenes of Clue.
Or colored chalk.
Or what Clive Owen's jaws are made out of.
I don't love you more than the social imagination.
Or more than NPR on Sunday.
Or my own face, glyphed
with tulip pollen.
I don't love you more than the word classic.
Or my afro.
Or this badass wrestling singlet.
No. But you're better off.
I'd only cause you grief, in time.
Abandon you for someone jazzy, more hirsute—
Probably. I guess.
I mean, maybe if you stepped into the singlet right now.
Theoretically. Just to see.
Wait— Wait—
( . . . )
Nope.