Cillian Murphy & the sexiness of 11 o’clock on my tween duvet. Cillian Murphy & the glamour of snowflakes on my robin’s egg toenails. Cillian Murphy & the sexiness of daybeds & delicately cut pepperoni. Cillian Murphy & the discovery of Neapolitan ice cream, with its three-part plot. Cillian Murphy & the sexiness of my hand on this Casio keyboard. Cillian Murphy & the jouissance of the windmill pond when all the cattle are dead. Cillian Murphy & the sexiness of happy birthdays from the stepfathers of the world! Cillian Murphy & the fantasia of pet burials & Russian dolls packed in paprika. Cillian Murphy & the sexiness of mud-pies dropped in the center of a cul-de-sac. Cillian Murphy & the breeziness of new love in the leg of my culottes. Cillian Murphy & the sexiness of 11 o’clock in the tenements of our personal apocalypse.
From a neighbor’s apartment, Moon River-- In the Mansion of Many Apartments, the 90s is a locked rec-room we can’t get back into. They’ve changed the code. I guess we just have to stand here together, chemically naked, admiring each other’s rhinestone spines in the hallway. Modernity is the worst fate: it stamps you with its apple blossom fist. There is so very little time left to love in the Grand OldStyle. If you’re coming to collect me, please do it quickly. Just now I am getting off the winter bus, blinking in the bright April air. Look. The whole decade shimmies like a gas-parade away from us. I don’t know what a huckleberry friend is, but I suspect it is something we hold too tight in the dark when we should be rowing. What is the vintage, my love, of this thing you seem to want so badly? Say, what are the names of all the dead birds who nest in your guitar?
I Will Immortalize You Tomorrow
in all your wine-dark inverted lip, I will crank you forward on hand and knee: you naked and smelling of venison. Cranked forth into our eventual wedding, you weirding me. Out in the church of the wildwoods. You so much more sentient, so much more naked and afroth in will-be, and I will wife you this way. Will queen you backwards and forwards in the wine-dark would-be. Will catch wind of you and hole you and hair you sentient, and without remorse. For we are older and ever. Older onto each other. Forthright in our endoskeletal decreation, helplessly sculling into this wine-dark adoré, adoré, adoré.
-- Karyna McGlynn is the author of I Have to Go Back to 1994 and Kill a Girl, winner of the Kathryn A. Morton Prize from Sarabande Books. Her chapbooks include Scorpionica (New Michigan Press, 2007) and the forthcoming collaboration Small Shrines (Cinematheque Press, 2011). Her poems appear in Fence, Denver Quarterly, Columbia Poetry Review, Salt Hill, the Journal and Verse Daily. Karyna received her MFA from the University of Michigan and is currently pursuing her PhD in English Lit and Creative Writing at the University of Houston. She is an Assistant Editor at Gulf Coast and co-edits linelinelineline with Adam Theriault.