Two poems
Elizabeth Torres
Raw Bone
With urgency trying to suck the juice
out of this poem
digging with toothpicks for the meat of it
exploring the anatomy not with trained knowledge
but honest, bestial hunger
and therefore, submitting it to fire
being stunned by its beauty as it responds to the heat
arriving
to early conclusions or hard surfaces
but arriving
passing bones back and forth
entertaining ourselves with the spectacle
staining all we touch
watching the poem twitch, yank, recede
detaching ourselves from the experience
while we bite
and as the blood runs down our cheek
licking the corners of our mouth.
Realizing
this poem is poisonous
it is made of nostalgia
it knows where the wound is
it brings hallucinations
it fills us with paralysis
…we’re at its mercy now.
Fade to black
If this feeling
were a house
it would be one lacking that lived-in vibe
not in the brand-new kind of way
nor an Ikea model
but no warm stove
and no figurines by the fire
and no fire
Something in the background
would be building up
lights flickering
and a sense of panic
would steam up the windows.
If this feeling
were a house
its doors would suddenly slam open
a gust would let itself in angrily
glass splattering everywhere
something coming from the street
knocking against the wall
the roof flying open
brick by brick cracking
and no longer any sound
you, in the center of it
and no texture
but the dryness in your mouth
dried up eyelids
dried up heart
dried up hope.
If this feeling
were a house
it would not make it past this evening
it wouldn’t have
what it takes.
With urgency trying to suck the juice
out of this poem
digging with toothpicks for the meat of it
exploring the anatomy not with trained knowledge
but honest, bestial hunger
and therefore, submitting it to fire
being stunned by its beauty as it responds to the heat
arriving
to early conclusions or hard surfaces
but arriving
passing bones back and forth
entertaining ourselves with the spectacle
staining all we touch
watching the poem twitch, yank, recede
detaching ourselves from the experience
while we bite
and as the blood runs down our cheek
licking the corners of our mouth.
Realizing
this poem is poisonous
it is made of nostalgia
it knows where the wound is
it brings hallucinations
it fills us with paralysis
…we’re at its mercy now.
Fade to black
If this feeling
were a house
it would be one lacking that lived-in vibe
not in the brand-new kind of way
nor an Ikea model
but no warm stove
and no figurines by the fire
and no fire
Something in the background
would be building up
lights flickering
and a sense of panic
would steam up the windows.
If this feeling
were a house
its doors would suddenly slam open
a gust would let itself in angrily
glass splattering everywhere
something coming from the street
knocking against the wall
the roof flying open
brick by brick cracking
and no longer any sound
you, in the center of it
and no texture
but the dryness in your mouth
dried up eyelids
dried up heart
dried up hope.
If this feeling
were a house
it would not make it past this evening
it wouldn’t have
what it takes.
Elizabeth Torres (Madam Neverstop) 1987. Colombian-American poet, multimedia artist, literary translator and cultural organizer. Winner of the Ambroggio Prize by the Academy of American Poets with her book Lotería: Nocturnal Sweepstakes, University of Arizona Press 2023. Elizabeth is the author of over 20 books of poetry, with which she has performed in more than 35 countries. She is the founder of the Poetic Phonotheque, host of the Red Transmissions Podcast and director of Red Door Magazine. Elizabeth has a background in Media & Film and Fine Arts and an MFA in Writing from the National School of Performing Arts in Denmark. www.madamneverstop.com
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