Three Poems For Wild Girls

 
1.)

First, three lies.

One.
When I was a child, my parents took me to the forest. There was a cabin, a chimney. They chopped wood, worked to frenzy. The embrace of axe and handle, my mother’s hands an open wound.

Two.
I am writing this for the child I will never have, a girl called Sarah. I call her Longing. Call her Tick, call her Bruised Temple. My little rubber sole, my consequence.

Three.
I always knew what I was.

Three Poems – Jessica Lohafer

The Cover of Rolling Stone Magazine 

The photographer knows. Calls your name and number, pulls
your star from his private smog sea. Wants you to get quick,
give gullible. The photographer is shout-singing suggestions
from behind his Magna Carta camera lens:

Try tricksy! There you go, pretend you don’t know! Pretend
you don’t want what you know! Give me infidelity! Plump 
your lips! Give me click click click! Like you’re the purveyor
rule breaker, and there are Hail Marys for sale! 

He seizures Seltzer water, is scream-stamp-skipping 
towards an assistant named Tonya, oh, Tonya, 
tragic greenscreen orphanet, an individualist 
who thought she was better than this. 

But isn’t Hollywood just a different kind 
of housebreaking? All of its precious pets
reigned into the same ring, panting, panting,
	waiting for their cue.