I Left Behind My Books

Art by Cooper Jasiorkoski

I left swimming to the mermaids. God (Freud) made us all

half-man, conjoined legs, and sterilized by 

sex-ed explanations of the human race. On Sunday 

I left baptism to nameless sirens: uvulas wrung dry. 

(The salt sours their lungs as seafoam 

guzzles from their throats). Moans stretch their lips until wry

like a Doxen’s snout. Dusk’s drunk fishers see bitches without bones 

honed to sharpen breasts or widen feet to wings. With harpoons,

The navy sank into the water’s limbs; 

The waves cooed while thrashing;

How? Without regret, I wish I could forget. 

I left Adam hanging from a rope ‘til he ripens (wilts)

among the apples with the bloody, shapely, cheeks 

of an apple. I left Eve, the guilt. 

She lopped the budded head from that branch-cast critique 

of her body when she saw it was shiny. The dawn-

flushed and feverish fruit filled the rounded, antique 

 sockets of her skull. So, I abandon her to a boa, 

graceful as a serpent, among punk lyricists’ and biblical mystique. 

Now Adam, that poor decapitated child, is blind

with a spilling tongue. He can’t digest his Gerber’s greens

 (she can’t do enough to pre-chew them). 

Father dangled in his highchair: Christ–though 

still bereft, I wish I could forget. 

I left Hermaphroditus naked as ivory 

vases.  The type that’s elephant shaped. There’s a trunk

(strapped) weld on: the most fragile and necessary part to be

more than a womb for a girl dressed in sunscreen and river. Oil

 thrusts into the exposed intestine or liver. The innards

are dyed as black as a skunk (people just think of rotting smells).

I had forgot Salamacis who unbuttoned, coyly, 

both their floral shirts and the vodka tasting crisper 

like a motel’s smoky pool. There’s a liquid mirror–we–

 with an unbeginning reflection. I must recite, 

quickly now, 

so I don’t forget, 

I wish I could forget. 

I left during Hestia’s thanksgiving toast, 

with the cider still glowing like hell in her glass. Was Poland 

crucified? The ghost is like memories of smoke (no body). Besides grass

 in the 70’s, witches and Eve were in Temperance Union. Temptresses

whitened to willows. Human skin was shed, like a python’s scaly

garter, and left children’s bones uncovered as burned-bark inked Gaza.

 Nothing is hidden by water: remains 

 like speechless tadpoles,

I wish I could forget.

I rewrote everything. 

Alexa Robbins PZ ’23 is a psychology major from Los Angeles, California. She likes running and hiking until she gets lost but doesn’t like finding her way back.

Author: theoutbackstaff

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