WOW IT’S DEPRESSING HOW COLLEGIATE I FEEL BUT I SQUEEZE SOME LEMONS INTO MY HAIR AS A GESTURE OF OPTIMISM  OK SO I GUESS ALL THAT’S LEFT TO DO IS LIKE SIT HERE & LIKE THINK ABOUT LIKE WHO I HAVE A CRUSH ON?  LIKE OK MY SLEEP ISN’T REAL DO YOU HAVE TO REMIND ME?  WALKING WITH YOU I FEEL FAR AWAY FROM EVERYTHING  I DON’T KNOW WHERE I AM BECAUSE IT’S SO COLD BUT WE’VE DECIDED TO LIKE THE COLD  I WANT TO BE A WORD  JUST ONE  I TAKE A PHOTOGRAPH OF YOUR FOOLPROOF REASONING OTHERWISE KNOW AS THE WAY TWO BODIES CAN SLAM INTO ONE ANOTHER & STILL SLIDE PAST  MY FINGER CAN BARELY PUSH DOWN THE BUTTON  CLICK  OK SO NOW I’M THINKING ABOUT SOMEONE ELSE’S HANDS & THE TWO OF US SHARING IN GENEROSITY THAT WE DID NOT DESERVE  THEN WE SLEPT & ON THE TRAIN DID NOT SPEAK  THIS WATER IS FINE, DRINK IT, BUT I’M SO NERVOUS THAT THE GLASS BREAKS IN MY HANDS  YOU CASH A CHECK  YOU ARE GOING TO BE RICH

it is ok for young geniuses to be blind

the young genius lies in the grass  he begins to speak  on saturday morning i woke up with a stranger’s cum on my face  he says  then my father took me to see king lear  as i pluck the eyebrows of the young genius he asks me how do i write a poem that says “come home with me”? 
 

i am not the person to ask that question, i say 
angling the tweezers down 
plucking out his eyes 
& splatting them on the kitchen floor 

i have a feeling        

you have a feeling what                     

i just have a feeling
 

the young genius eats a slice of dollar pizza with his father  the young genius eats a slice of dollar pizza with a man who is not his father  or anyone’s father  the young genius & i go grocery shopping together  since the young genius can no longer see  he selects items based on their texture  & places them in the cart

we buy:

three half gallon tubs of creamy peanut butter

the milk of human kindness

four packs of yellow peeps--manager’s special, three for the price of two.
 

the young genius doesn’t seem to understand that for you to choke me is really only an acceptable answer to the question what do you want when you are in bed with someone 
 

something like

i am going to dunkin’ donuts. what do you want?

for you to choke me
 

then there are only five  then there are only four  like my underwear on the floor of the laundromat  not not like or  generous like  a birthday present from your great aunt  these, i’ll have you know, are the sluttish spoils of war  oh, you shouldn’t have 

the young genius feels around through his blindness for my hands  he grabs them & together we dance  the young genius retires to bed early  & waits for sleep to come

martyrs on television

on the six o’clock news two girls are bleeding into each other

& i am mourning the death of the author 

the day is dripping off of my eyelids & the steam rising up from the stove fills my stomach

letting me float in the peril of my own domesticity

the priest is the only thing that can get in between, like how a girl can be her own ghost 

i, for one, would like to haunt my own wrinkled veins, the day hanging loosely around me. 

to be a large body                    to be a small body                               to be a doll on display 

you are standing in front of the mirror wearing layers & layers of clothing  you begin to undress but never reach bare skin  this fruitless removal is something like a fire that falls into your own chest  you drape your legs across the table & think about what your legs are to me

the poet is only allowed to say it is evening

in the garden joan of arc sucks the poison from my spider bite 

in the garden we are both left wanting

so we go to the bar  all we really wanted to do was lock eyes behind the endless rows of bottles so joan drinks down my earnestness & feels the alarm clock that starts in her feet and can only go up up up  desire is not a biblical project & it’s time for her to slouch back against her stool & feel for my face

join the crowd on the sidewalk so you have somewhere to go

UNDER YOUR GAZE joan’s body turned into a haphazard grammar

desire is not a biblical project.

from me, she demands being  your face powdered white  your face powdered drag on drag  your face loosened so that i might reach into it  & so obscenity extinguishes the candle that has been burning for the last five hundred & eighty three years  the poet is only allowed to say it is evening & for your sake i will let this wax drip down my chin

I AM MOURNING THE DEATH OF THE AUTHOR

& the steam rising up from the stove fills my stomach

on the six o’clock news joan of arc sucks the poison from my spider bite

like how a girl can be her own ghost.

CLARA LIPFERT is the author of the chapbook I’ll Be Your Sometimes Girl, as well as one half of the performance and poetics project HAG, which curates salons, hosts dinner parties, and publishes zines.