Two Poems by Camonghne Felix
This week in the PEN Poetry Series, PEN America features two poems by Camonghne Felix.
After The Abortion, an Older White Planned Parenthood Volunteer Asks If My Husband Is Here & Squeezes My Thigh and Says, “You Made The Right Decision,” and Then “Look What Could Happen If Trump Were President, I Mean, You Might Not Even Be Here.”
What else could I say except I agree with you really am bulldozed
with grief
my strength a whistle in this cold parabola everything an arc nemesis all of
my self a bowl
Instead I said yes he is here I mean my fiance I know I made the right decision of course he is okay we already agreed on this plan i mean look what could happen she says Hillary is our only option I say I know Look I haven’t told anyone this I am quitting my job she says my god I think I
understand your geography no not really I mean I’m leaving my good god government job I work for the governor she says are you running I say sort of I mean I’m going to work for Hillary
for America because we’re looking at a critical fault otherwise
and I know they need me they told me they need
my colloquial criticalities my totalizing abnormalities my compounds and
constructs of trajectory this is the only how I know to be had I belong to the
people but not your people I mean
I’m saying my people you wouldn’t understand this I’m
stealthy and svelte I can counter-swell any tide I am prepared
she holds my hands says thank you you must know that it matters
all of it matters
in the bed next to me a woman solid with anguish and sleep is ruby with
the wash of bleeding out and no one is tending i look down at myself, curried
with the same deep pink realize no one is tending in the taxi cab my
husband i mean fiance holds my hands his fingers all lead a dying
creek at the pitch of a sword he says i’m okay when you’re okay you
have to be okay remember they’re waiting on you for days i slept like this
my open submission to the cosmic opacities of time my
body shedding its just-built mouth he lies awake meters between us
steady documenting a decay my black studies professor said
what are you here for if you’re not willing to die for it I Get it
I’m skunked with the fear of what I’m willing to kill for it where do I
file this nuance to whom do I spare this complaint
When I woke he’d been fed watered wanted for
realized he didn’t need my indecision or his inability to travel time
or the bottomless glamor of conquering the unknown I know now
the octane faults of our ontological duties the war between becoming
and the formal unbecoming of being called and they said they needed me they
did so I went we bellied the hole I did what my mother asked of me
stepped into the heavy quilt of her ill drawn life I did my fucking
job I did what I was told in the end all my chemistry a performance of
gratitude all my insides turned purple with practical storms on election
night I flipped from
channel to channel neurosis in practice as
weighted predictions balance the draw I think no oh please
don’t
you know what I’ve bled for this in the distance a lone
voice is soprano with cheer and the silence
settles in succeeds with bare platitudes
I swear my love I did my best I worked with what I know I tilled
I paved I foraged labored a land
got us some growth settled my currents left all of us
famished bloody hungry at war
Aziza Gifts Me A New Pair Of Pants and Saves Me From A Kind Of Dysmorphia
you turned me into the enigma of
your sleep and I could no longer
get to you, your dream girl novaed
into soluble wins, a Mustang expensive
and out of reach. I want nothing from
her, no information, no explanation,
yet, in my Facebook inbox, she talks
of chemistry, a perceived lack thereof
how she peppers you with the music
of your fantasies, lets you into
the strobe light, her body a
body of swan songs. I can’t help but
do the comparative math work, really
analyze the friction —
on a scale of one to fuck you I am
obviously prettier, more compelling
better dressed, better situated for
the fixed follicle of long term care. She knows
the coke life, the nightlife, the way to shake
a man down to his flimsy desires
his petty pull to the things that will
kill him slow, his tongue a rat, a
hangnail at the edge of his mouth.
still, I know that perfection
is a matter of impulse and still
there is no one too perfect to feel
worthless. I cannot be bothered with
the multiple failures of my skin. Aziza says,
but, you are so beautiful
and yet, nothing fits. I am hungry
to return to the monster I know.
In my new room, there are no mirrors —
I am confounded with how ugly I feel
how thirsty I am to be something
ductile and pliable, calling out to the
back hand of the lover I know. We are
a bus ride apart and in the olive glow
of a high midnight, he texts me with
strangled, desperate remorse:
I want off this carousel
I need my girl, my life back
You are my only caboose
The only north star I know
My one way trip to something
Larger than my obnoxious instincts
Something larger than my
complicated, calculated need to be
Bigger than you.
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