Zoo

Men ​are ​boring, ​circling ​pleasure ​with ​eyes ​wide ​as ​clouds. ​They ​always ​move ​to ​my ​knees. ​But ​I ​am
waiting ​for ​a ​fog ​so ​terrible ​it ​will ​fuck ​up ​the ​sky. ​Everyone ​will ​find ​out ​the ​sea ​is ​a ​failure ​and ​each
system ​will ​be ​discovered ​as ​disgusting ​in ​origin ​and ​development. ​Having ​wasted ​the ​past ​3 ​days, ​I ​am
finally ​here, ​sitting ​by ​the ​window ​with ​monstrous ​giggles ​coming ​out ​of ​my ​perfect ​mouth. ​I ​have ​a
schoolgirl’s ​mouth. ​This ​is ​a ​fact. ​If ​enough ​men ​tell ​you, ​then ​it ​can ​also ​be ​your ​mental ​condition. ​I
attend ​to ​it ​like ​a ​fucking ​adult, ​swinging ​my ​door ​open ​every ​morning ​wishing ​the ​sky ​was ​a ​broken
neck. ​I ​take ​a ​walk ​anyway, ​pretending ​I’m ​famous. ​I ​decide ​to ​enter ​the ​room ​as ​someone ​else ​and ​feel
alive ​for ​45 ​seconds. ​Alive ​as ​a ​handshake. ​You ​enter ​the ​room ​so ​drunk ​you ​finally ​make ​a ​point. ​Some
days ​I ​feel ​so ​close ​to ​dead ​I ​become ​sexy, ​which ​is ​a ​fact ​if ​enough ​men ​tell ​you ​so. ​I ​am ​writing ​this ​on
tiny ​scraps ​of ​paper. ​I ​want ​to ​see ​if ​they ​rattle ​or ​harden ​under ​artificial ​light.

 


 

Goldie Negelev is a poet living in Oakland. Their poetry has appeared in Powder KegMetatronReality Beach, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, Cosmonauts Avenue, and other journals.

 

 

 


 

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© MARY: A Journal of New Writing, 2017