I mouth you into a corner.
I mouth you as if there’s a gun to my head,
a man in a ski mask
shouting, Mouth him or it’s all over—
no more pool parties, no more
washing each other’s hair,
or walking his dog
through the loud grass of spring.
Everything about me
that is astral:
all my lightning,
all the fists I’ve kissed
like the cheeks of cousins, all my horses
thunder down your throat. Open wide
for the sound of a pizza cutter
slicing asphalt. You may
develop a taste
for the flammable. I am not an oracle,
but I have crawled on my knees
toward the eye
of our future. I have buried our names
beneath the sidewalk
and returned to find grapevines
in their place.
I crush the grapes, drink
the wine, I climb a tree and do not
become a star. Let these
be the bodies
space rocks bore.
If they demand them back,
let us recognize
the beauty in that.
Ruth Madievsky is the author of a poetry collection, Emergency Brake, which was named Tavern Books’ 2015 Wrolstad Contemporary Poetry Series selection and was published in February 2016. Ruth’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Tin House, The Iowa Review, Gulf Coast, Prairie Schooner, ZYZZYVA, Rattle, and elsewhere. She was a 2015 Tin House scholar in poetry and reads chapbook submissions for Gold Line Press. She is originally from Moldova and lives in Los Angeles, where she is a doctoral student at USC’s School of Pharmacy. You can find her at ruthmadievsky.com.