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Three Poems by Diana Marie Delgado L'Objet Petit The last man allotted to me was devoured. What I mean is his clothes were destroyed. Not by me, of course, but by outlaws. The ordeal proved beyond repair. The intruders had forked tongues and the eyes on their wings looked like the wet mouths of cigarette burns. Once, searching for an umbrella, I startled them, and they waved their mouthparts at me like pistols. Outside, the curious stand in the rain without jackets. The closet’s still occupied, by what, I'm unsure. [Originally Published in Lumina]Lacan Lacan is right, psychologists fatten the sensational value of your tattoos. Lacan is now on the air. His subject: the body. Lacan is vague about the nature of art and how to undo the phallus. This is how he gains power. Lacan say there is sex; even if things enter humans, bad And without scorch. And is not clear about longshots and fat black markers. Lacan recommends a husband this time of year. Onscreen, Lacan bleeds and bleeds. He is young the entire dream. This is why we love him. Where do you hide to feed? Lacan largely held us underwater. But was not clear on whether our goal was glass or fathers. [Originally published in Ninth Letter, Summer 07] The Sea is Farther Than Thought In church, the boys have so much light, plants grow towards them. My aunt handed me and organdy fan and said, Hold this if you’re frightened or want to lose yourself—the devil can dance like a goddamned dream. There are three things on earth to point to: the sun, the moon, and the television. My brother walked into a garage with a needle taped to a battery, and emerged with his entire stomach tattooed. I don’t think I’ll touch a face like that again. Across the street, wetbacks sleep five to a room and sweep and water dirt, while children send canoes down the Hudson without oars. Let me explain westward expansion: Snow unfolded over a wagon train of nine, and nothing without wings survived. He answered the door holding a rag to his neck and we kissed on the service porch near a pitbull that’d just won a fight. Sometimes my father whittles for my mother in front of a bonfire, the vein searching his thigh, Corinthian blue. To be honest, I called because there was snow in my glove, not because I missed you. As a girl, I kept suede horses and a hairbrush inside a blonde toy-box. If the original tunnel of the body is the mouth, I’ve never had one. One day my face will appear and refuse to turn away. Some people like poison. I kneeled every time I opened it. [Originally published in The Indiana Review] | ||||||||||||
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