Annie Przypyszny
EVERYONE IS DOING THEIR BEST AND THEY CAN ALSO DO BETTER
A woman set the world
on fire today.
Maybe that was the best
she could do
in the strain
of the moment.
I mean, it’s not like she set
the moon on fire, too,
and Mars isn’t looking
any worse for wear.
In fact, every place but earth
is very much
not on fire, though
she could have done it,
though she almost did.
But she controlled herself.
She made do with just the world,
and it’s not as if the fire
won’t go out. Look,
it’s already dying down,
the flames shrinking
from waving flags
to wiggling tongues.
She could have done something
more final: smothered
the breath out of the world
with the heft of a pillow
or shot the world
point blank
in its slow-spinning head.
But she didn’t.
She set the world on fire
and only the green things died.
Of course, it would have been better
if she hadn’t set the fire
in the first place.
I’m not saying
what she did was right.
But give her time
to sit, time to heal.
She’ll learn to manage
on a smaller scale:
just a continent,
just a big, empty barn.
Just the candle’s small
and willing wick.
A woman set the world
on fire today.
Maybe that was the best
she could do
in the strain
of the moment.
I mean, it’s not like she set
the moon on fire, too,
and Mars isn’t looking
any worse for wear.
In fact, every place but earth
is very much
not on fire, though
she could have done it,
though she almost did.
But she controlled herself.
She made do with just the world,
and it’s not as if the fire
won’t go out. Look,
it’s already dying down,
the flames shrinking
from waving flags
to wiggling tongues.
She could have done something
more final: smothered
the breath out of the world
with the heft of a pillow
or shot the world
point blank
in its slow-spinning head.
But she didn’t.
She set the world on fire
and only the green things died.
Of course, it would have been better
if she hadn’t set the fire
in the first place.
I’m not saying
what she did was right.
But give her time
to sit, time to heal.
She’ll learn to manage
on a smaller scale:
just a continent,
just a big, empty barn.
Just the candle’s small
and willing wick.
HYBRISTOPHILIA IN THE TEENAGE GIRL
We tell you to watch out.
We say, avoid men who look
a certain way, who smile
a certain way, who walk
in any direction
except away from you.
When you ask us why,
we say that men do
ghastly things. They pretend
to be vulnerable, asking for help
with feeble voice
before knocking you out
with a strike of their crutch.
Or else they sweet talk,
convincing you you’re prettier
than you are, telling you
how the blue of your sweater
brings out the blue of your eyes.
Then, next thing you know
you’re floating
in the river, your eyes
rolled white. This
is our stern job,
to provide you with stories
of men who want you
dead. You begin
to imagine hands
exploring the shape
of your throat, your body
being traced
by some sharp,
teasing object--
a needle, perhaps,
or a shard of glass.
It’s dreams like this
that take your breath
away, that arch your spine
in torturous desire.
You ask us
what’s the difference
between pain and pleasure?
We answer by warning
of stairwells and drunk coeds,
dark alleys and Black Dahlias,
dumpsters, decaying debutants,
and strangers donning ski masks.
We give you
pepper spray in a pink can, a key
to slide between your knuckles.
We teach you to scream
like you mean it. We offer
two options: be a victim
in the making, or study
these flashcards we made,
each showing a different piece
of a woman’s hacksawed body.
Once you’ve memorized the crime,
decide if you want that
to be you.
We tell you to watch out.
We say, avoid men who look
a certain way, who smile
a certain way, who walk
in any direction
except away from you.
When you ask us why,
we say that men do
ghastly things. They pretend
to be vulnerable, asking for help
with feeble voice
before knocking you out
with a strike of their crutch.
Or else they sweet talk,
convincing you you’re prettier
than you are, telling you
how the blue of your sweater
brings out the blue of your eyes.
Then, next thing you know
you’re floating
in the river, your eyes
rolled white. This
is our stern job,
to provide you with stories
of men who want you
dead. You begin
to imagine hands
exploring the shape
of your throat, your body
being traced
by some sharp,
teasing object--
a needle, perhaps,
or a shard of glass.
It’s dreams like this
that take your breath
away, that arch your spine
in torturous desire.
You ask us
what’s the difference
between pain and pleasure?
We answer by warning
of stairwells and drunk coeds,
dark alleys and Black Dahlias,
dumpsters, decaying debutants,
and strangers donning ski masks.
We give you
pepper spray in a pink can, a key
to slide between your knuckles.
We teach you to scream
like you mean it. We offer
two options: be a victim
in the making, or study
these flashcards we made,
each showing a different piece
of a woman’s hacksawed body.
Once you’ve memorized the crime,
decide if you want that
to be you.
--
Annie Przypyszny is a poet from Washington, DC. She is an Assistant Editor for Grace and Gravity and has poems published or forthcoming in The Northern Virginia Review, Pacifica Literary Review, The Healing Muse, North Dakota Quarterly, Tupelo Quarterly, Ponder Review, SWWIM, and others.
Annie Przypyszny is a poet from Washington, DC. She is an Assistant Editor for Grace and Gravity and has poems published or forthcoming in The Northern Virginia Review, Pacifica Literary Review, The Healing Muse, North Dakota Quarterly, Tupelo Quarterly, Ponder Review, SWWIM, and others.