Julianna Holshue
Eat the Rich
What I wouldn't pay—a bleeding sack of
Surgeon, tailor, sculptor hands,
To guzzle down their gizzards,
Lick their locks clean,
Carve their cartridge,
And feast on their springy forms.
Surgeon, tailor, sculptor hands,
To guzzle down their gizzards,
Lick their locks clean,
Carve their cartridge,
And feast on their springy forms.
I wonder how much it costs—mason jars pooled with the salty tears of infants suckling on dry
Breasts from malnourished mothers, to
Suck the saliva off of their tongues
Devour the decadence that is, was, their pure blood
Pick their once pumping hearts clean with a silver spoon.
Breasts from malnourished mothers, to
Suck the saliva off of their tongues
Devour the decadence that is, was, their pure blood
Pick their once pumping hearts clean with a silver spoon.
Oh, to decorate my décolletage with rows and rows of veneered, pointed teeth,
Munch on the membrane of their brains
To absorb the way they tipped their teacups, sipped their soup,
Ripped the single mother housemaid off.
Munch on the membrane of their brains
To absorb the way they tipped their teacups, sipped their soup,
Ripped the single mother housemaid off.
Oh, to twist the veins and arteries together, just right
To form a pulpous tennis bracelet, one that
Is sure to piss off Martha Washington,
Make her shake her chicken-thick wrists,
To form a pulpous tennis bracelet, one that
Is sure to piss off Martha Washington,
Make her shake her chicken-thick wrists,
Make her think I was shacking up with ol' George when
He clasps it around all eight of my porcelain, fragile carpus bones.
When the clasp clips, the crowd will whisper into Martha’s sagging ears—"She Looks Too Pretty, Try To Catch Her" or "Some Lovers Try Positions That They Cannot Handle."
He clasps it around all eight of my porcelain, fragile carpus bones.
When the clasp clips, the crowd will whisper into Martha’s sagging ears—"She Looks Too Pretty, Try To Catch Her" or "Some Lovers Try Positions That They Cannot Handle."
You know, when I broke into this soiree,
I expected these defunct animatronics of wealth
To gasp in incredulity,
But they were far too busy with their feet.
I expected these defunct animatronics of wealth
To gasp in incredulity,
But they were far too busy with their feet.
And that is when I made my proposal:
Do any of you know when Bacchus will be home?
Their answer?
Do any of you know when Bacchus will be home?
Their answer?
Heels rapping on the gold embellished carpet,
Coattails fluttering behind their rocking buttocks.
All taking their medicine of harpsichord and violin.
Coattails fluttering behind their rocking buttocks.
All taking their medicine of harpsichord and violin.
I too take mine,
And devour their silence,
Scooped from the five-fingered begging cups of martyrs.
And devour their silence,
Scooped from the five-fingered begging cups of martyrs.
Making Wine for God
Two tart cherry breasts,
the suckling stones of lost lambs
sweetly swell with ripeness,
stringed feet press the sour grapes.
Time to make more wine for Him.
The pulling of their weight strips away at the fruit
in the swollen barrel I bear.
the suckling stones of lost lambs
sweetly swell with ripeness,
stringed feet press the sour grapes.
Time to make more wine for Him.
The pulling of their weight strips away at the fruit
in the swollen barrel I bear.
Deep colored juice festers from
Clotted cracks in its burst bottom,
and stains the itching grass beneath it,
an irascible residue.
Clotted cracks in its burst bottom,
and stains the itching grass beneath it,
an irascible residue.
Ice rotted seeds thaw
As blotchy skin of night is peeled away.
The Devil's Tooth mushroom
Is crushed underfoot the sun's imminent arrival.
As blotchy skin of night is peeled away.
The Devil's Tooth mushroom
Is crushed underfoot the sun's imminent arrival.
I wonder if He will come again
to fertilize my bejeweled garden, all of pomegranates,
or if He is only responsible for trimming its bushes—debilitating the wild.
I doubt it isn't He who demands a harvest each month,
for who else would make a woman buckle
Like a sticky, locked jaw?
to fertilize my bejeweled garden, all of pomegranates,
or if He is only responsible for trimming its bushes—debilitating the wild.
I doubt it isn't He who demands a harvest each month,
for who else would make a woman buckle
Like a sticky, locked jaw?
I long for the day my field will go barren,
when winter will wrap her vines over my once virile roots
and suffocate their flaccid promises.
when winter will wrap her vines over my once virile roots
and suffocate their flaccid promises.
IUD
I was told the metal coil inside of my body was not responsible for my foamed mouth grimaces at the dinner table, as father questioned why I was clenching my fork with such force that my knuckles turned whiter than the dead fish on my plate, belly up. That it’s not responsible for my thighs creaking in my seat in art class, disturbing the chunky sneakered kids who knew how to capture the jagged lines on withered orange peels with cracked sores, oozing out slime, lines which I didn’t have to draw because I could already feel them in the depths of my black caverned uterus. It's not responsible for me sewing and supergluing a heating pad into my seizing stomach, while I already have another of boiling lavender rice shoved into my pants, fighting fire with fire. No, I was told that it was me, not it. And I wished I could unwrap its copper tentacles from around my damaged womanhood and drip the poison tipped dagger out of my body and onto the numb linoleum floor, and maybe then I would become responsible for something, for once.
My Father Has Two Daughters
He feeds his skinny squirrel, who asked for none,
Roasted and salted peanuts.
Roasted and salted peanuts.
My father is warm porridge poured in a bowl by
A Polish nun for the dirt-cheeked orphan.
He is the sliced berries resting in china bowls not
Yet fired in the kiln.
He is the sugar cinnamon gilded on top of pancakes.
He is the juice dripping from a child’s chin
When they bite into a clementine and giggle
At the bumpy rind hanging from their tinsel teeth.
A Polish nun for the dirt-cheeked orphan.
He is the sliced berries resting in china bowls not
Yet fired in the kiln.
He is the sugar cinnamon gilded on top of pancakes.
He is the juice dripping from a child’s chin
When they bite into a clementine and giggle
At the bumpy rind hanging from their tinsel teeth.
He hands his squirrel another shelled nut,
But before she can take what is given to her,
Another squirrel, one fatter than his with her golden fur,
Takes it and retreats up the maple. Then,
But before she can take what is given to her,
Another squirrel, one fatter than his with her golden fur,
Takes it and retreats up the maple. Then,
He is no longer the docile nun doling out sweets, but now rather,
He is the yapping dog the neighborhood mutters under their breath to run off.
He is the boogie monster careening out from behind the pines at campfire.
He is shoes too tight on the heels,
the ooze dripping onto the ground.
He is the yapping dog the neighborhood mutters under their breath to run off.
He is the boogie monster careening out from behind the pines at campfire.
He is shoes too tight on the heels,
the ooze dripping onto the ground.
He is the fool circling a maple tree, cursing at his squirrels
And I close my eyes to scamper away.
And I close my eyes to scamper away.
How to Fry an Egg
Select an egg and triple check its expiration date.
Half notice you want to hide at the sound of the styrofoam
As the bald baby is picked up out of its cradle.
Grab the butter holder and think about how it would feel
to smush the gold inside of it with your bare hands.
Look at your hands and remember all the men who told you you have delicate fingers.
Grab the pan off of the fridge and think about how you hate how it's up there.
Hold the butter knife you forgot you grabbed and think about oranges.
Half notice you want to hide at the sound of the styrofoam
As the bald baby is picked up out of its cradle.
Grab the butter holder and think about how it would feel
to smush the gold inside of it with your bare hands.
Look at your hands and remember all the men who told you you have delicate fingers.
Grab the pan off of the fridge and think about how you hate how it's up there.
Hold the butter knife you forgot you grabbed and think about oranges.
Put butter in the pan and grab a wooden spoon,
Not the slotted, or the square topped, but the one with no holes or edges—the circle.
Remember you have an onion in the fridge, not a whole one, just half.
Grab the onion and open its Chinese leftover container and
Think about how mom would be proud you saved so many of them.
Not the slotted, or the square topped, but the one with no holes or edges—the circle.
Remember you have an onion in the fridge, not a whole one, just half.
Grab the onion and open its Chinese leftover container and
Think about how mom would be proud you saved so many of them.
Place the onion on the chopping board.
Notice it has crumbs, so pick up the onion and brush the crumbs onto the floor.
Step on the crumbs and pick up your foot to look at them.
It looks like mushrooms—dirty and flat, remember you have mushrooms in the fridge.
Rub your crumb foot on the floor, now they’re off your foot, and you feel clean again.
Notice it has crumbs, so pick up the onion and brush the crumbs onto the floor.
Step on the crumbs and pick up your foot to look at them.
It looks like mushrooms—dirty and flat, remember you have mushrooms in the fridge.
Rub your crumb foot on the floor, now they’re off your foot, and you feel clean again.
Open the fridge and see the mushrooms are crushed under
the weight of white rice in glass containers.
Abandon the thought of saving the mushrooms.
the weight of white rice in glass containers.
Abandon the thought of saving the mushrooms.
Realize the butter has not melted in the pan because you forgot to put the burner on.
So, it turns on.
Cut up the onion in pieces too small.
Let the onion burn your eyes, embrace it.
Write a poem about sautéing onions. It goes like this:
So, it turns on.
Cut up the onion in pieces too small.
Let the onion burn your eyes, embrace it.
Write a poem about sautéing onions. It goes like this:
When my mother's gone away, I fry onions.
When the dog’s gonna die, I fry onions and garlic.
When the lemons have rotted, I fry peas from a can and onions.
When the Black boys in the street are beat down, I fry mounds and
mounds of stunted onions to say those made me cry.
When the dog’s gonna die, I fry onions and garlic.
When the lemons have rotted, I fry peas from a can and onions.
When the Black boys in the street are beat down, I fry mounds and
mounds of stunted onions to say those made me cry.
When I forgave dad, I ate a raw onion.
When I felt myself rusting,
I grilled figs like the bagger at the store suggested.
When my legs no longer moved, I fried an egg on fat to watch it dance.
The rims turned black because I told them to.
When I felt myself rusting,
I grilled figs like the bagger at the store suggested.
When my legs no longer moved, I fried an egg on fat to watch it dance.
The rims turned black because I told them to.
When I pitied dad, I baked banana bread and boiled blackberry jam.
I took his bitter seeds and tried to sweeten them.
When I forgot he loved me, I hit myself.
I squeezed the pulp out of my cheeks,
grated the bone underneath into sour juice I was selling but no one was buyin'.
I took his bitter seeds and tried to sweeten them.
When I forgot he loved me, I hit myself.
I squeezed the pulp out of my cheeks,
grated the bone underneath into sour juice I was selling but no one was buyin'.
When my sister said she despised me because I was dad's golden girl, well I made
a sickening sweet gooseberry pie with an underbaked underbelly
And made her eat the whole damn thing.
She tried to serve herself—she thought I was too sweet.
a sickening sweet gooseberry pie with an underbaked underbelly
And made her eat the whole damn thing.
She tried to serve herself—she thought I was too sweet.
Your egg is now burnt.
Get a new one.
Get a new one.
Share
|
|
