Manic Episode; A Spectacle in Three Acts I. It was a reasonable motorcycle when you consider the sheer number of areas you can get to atop a bike or a god or a horse or a brand new Discover card, the folks from the mail ad all eager to give a young woman the chance to spend a weekend rocketing to god- only-knows where, itinerary full of Alaska, Atlantis, Andromeda, not one component un-componented, so I am not sure I understand the problem. Continue reading
Author Archives: Ellyn Touchette
Two Poems – Ellyn Touchette
Three Poems – Ellyn Touchette
Bar Games It is a Saturday night. I am at a party where I do not belong, half blinded by eight shots of bootlegged whiskey. I am a hot, fresh seventeen. The boy I want to stop wanting whispers that I should kiss a woman. For him. He points one out. She is dancing, four feet in the air with her hands on the ceiling. A bartender is looking up her skirt. This is the story of how I fingered a stranger on, and promptly fell from, the bar at Alpha Gamma Rho. When I wake, sore and cloudy in the boy’s arms, it seems that I can no longer masquerade as a straight woman. A sprained ankle hurts like a mother who delivers blind condemnations. It is too easy to stay quiet, to hide your weekends from a Catholic family. It is too easy to kiss girls at frat parties, to let whiskey be your social justice, to exchange a woman you love in the evening for a masculine hand to hold by daylight. Do not let the movies fool you— a night like this does not taste like the revolution. It tastes like Jameson, like vomit, and a little like a speechless car ride with your mother. It tastes like too many almost-sentences, like jokes without punchlines. Tastes like so much talk of phases that even your reflection looks like the least honest lunar eclipse you’ve ever seen. Tastes like the last time you saw that boy who left you, the God-fearing one you don’t talk about anymore; how he spat his love onto your shoes when you told him what you were, like he thought maybe your sense of self worth needed shining. Tastes like a poster in a boy’s bedroom of two women covered in soap who paw at each other but stare at the camera. Two women who grope at the love of a spectator they will never need to meet. It is a joke without a punchline: Two women climb onto a bar. One falls off. They both go home with boys. Continue reading
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