Alina Stefanescu
April 2015, Issue 1
Incident Concerning A Poem By Frank O'Hara
“I am always looking away. Or again at something after it has given me up.”
Frank O’Hara
Frank O’Hara
It was the Frank O’Hara poem
that brought you back
to the present
purple bedspread.
It wasn’t intended,
yet events transpire
despite the having/had,
or even, knowing better.
It was the Frank O’Hara poem
he pasted inside an email
surprised to see a shade of me
lurking in the second stanza
only to confirm, certainly
everything already happened.
Everything is the scent of sodden wool,
his face a fugue, the lyric’s undercurrent.
It was me who kept the poem
but excised his words’ frame
before sending the poem your way
since I, too, encountered a shade.
It was you who found it divine
got it completely, the poem in there
had been two specks, a me and
a you, neither daring ask who.
It is you who lays here now
while my eyes roll back to
let drop the startled feeling
of foreskin in a field of nodding
donkeys and southern crosses
whatever scraps he trod in me.
Whatever footprints persist
none of this is separate as it seems.
It was, after all, the Frank O’Hara poem,
that went through several hands
before it left me warmer
within your arms’ parentheses
the punctuation marked a girl
and how she lied to a perfectly
good poem. Whatever she quoted
you or him, the poem is the part
she can’t recover with our regret.
that brought you back
to the present
purple bedspread.
It wasn’t intended,
yet events transpire
despite the having/had,
or even, knowing better.
It was the Frank O’Hara poem
he pasted inside an email
surprised to see a shade of me
lurking in the second stanza
only to confirm, certainly
everything already happened.
Everything is the scent of sodden wool,
his face a fugue, the lyric’s undercurrent.
It was me who kept the poem
but excised his words’ frame
before sending the poem your way
since I, too, encountered a shade.
It was you who found it divine
got it completely, the poem in there
had been two specks, a me and
a you, neither daring ask who.
It is you who lays here now
while my eyes roll back to
let drop the startled feeling
of foreskin in a field of nodding
donkeys and southern crosses
whatever scraps he trod in me.
Whatever footprints persist
none of this is separate as it seems.
It was, after all, the Frank O’Hara poem,
that went through several hands
before it left me warmer
within your arms’ parentheses
the punctuation marked a girl
and how she lied to a perfectly
good poem. Whatever she quoted
you or him, the poem is the part
she can’t recover with our regret.
The Men At The Bar
The men sit at the bar and survey the damages
try to recall the words they’ve lost for disuse
a fluency of farmers
Sven Bikarts isn’t there but he says a change in
the rate of interaction is a change in the nature
of the interaction
I’m not there either but I think of speed dating
and systemic screwup speedups determined by
the expectation of fun
try to recall the words they’ve lost for disuse
a fluency of farmers
Sven Bikarts isn’t there but he says a change in
the rate of interaction is a change in the nature
of the interaction
I’m not there either but I think of speed dating
and systemic screwup speedups determined by
the expectation of fun
Whiter Curtains
It is winter
outside
there are always
whiter curtains.
In the mall
there are always
ultraradiant
white teeth.
A natural-ish
bleach is more
expensive than
a whiter one.
The poem
brews as
possible.
Ice freezes
the car doors
there are always
white fingertips.
We lean
on weather
as excuse
to resist
the thaw.
outside
there are always
whiter curtains.
In the mall
there are always
ultraradiant
white teeth.
A natural-ish
bleach is more
expensive than
a whiter one.
The poem
brews as
possible.
Ice freezes
the car doors
there are always
white fingertips.
We lean
on weather
as excuse
to resist
the thaw.
Leftovers
I read his
heart’s
discordant
tuning
by the
bulge
in his
kitchen
trashcan.
A man’s love
is a mirror
you see
a self
in what
he makes
of what’s
left over.
heart’s
discordant
tuning
by the
bulge
in his
kitchen
trashcan.
A man’s love
is a mirror
you see
a self
in what
he makes
of what’s
left over.
