Lingua Franca
The first-ever medium, that is, the earliest mechanism
through which information travelled, was air. When I visited Italy,
I went to the oldest anatomical theatre, where students would observe
dissections of a cadaver, and sometimes they would hang
the skeletons for decoration. Originally a medical term
from Medieval Latin defined as “(fever) lasting a day,”
the word ephemeral refers to something transitory, short-lived.
The only Italian I learned—piccione and bottigllia—was perhaps
because language just reflects to us what is available. I think I should leave the rest of this to the linguists. But for now, I’ll say, that for some reason, when you describe my body, I let the words float. So maybe,
like language, our love can translate for us what is right there.
And I urge you to name something more accessible—
more instinctual and honest than the rustle of your breath.
Elegy
for D.Z.
He must have been in a lot of pain, too,
to receive an elective spinal surgery
a year after my class graduated
from a school that protected its
status over its students.
With coffee drinks and baggy jeans,
reporting stories from Jersey,
and a red, red rose embossed on the wall,
he read all our college essays
and prepared us for the AP exam with vigor.
We spent so long studying existentialism—
if he taught us anything, it was definitely
life is absurd. And maybe that’s why someone
who was so easy to poke fun at
never took anything to heart; the giggles,
disrespect, and disobedience. He didn’t know
not a single person read The Trial
when it was assigned. His favorite quote:
“Literature is the question minus the answer,”
(written on the whiteboard)
made me cringe every time. In the margins
of my Frankenstein essay, he encouraged
my writing—everyone does—
by scribbling “I want to see more of this
version of you.” After class,
we lined up at the door,
trying to sneak out before the bell rang,
not pulling one over on him,
just seeing if we could get away
with one more thing before the end.
The Dancer
On the couch, watching The Sopranos
with our joint HBO Max subscription.
The turquoise sequins bounced on screen,
and what I perceived as a teasing nudge, a fish
for reassurance turned confession. While the kitten slept
between us, belly-up, he told me about the clubs, the drugs,
the dancer, whose neck he thought must be sucked.
Though she said no, you didn’t pay—not enough—,
he continued with mystified conviction, caressing
her breasts. I saw how easily his hands morphed
into those that once grasped the small of my back.
I didn’t recoil when he asked for permission to touch me.
I cried over what I’d never have.
No, not her body, her apology.
Relapse Fantasy
after Kaveh Akbar
The peddlers across the street must know
everything. She jaywalks toward
the music. It carries like the love-
sick songs arranged by the boy atop a mountain.
Having slipped inside a dress, she wants
to rip her skin off less, for the first time since
the voices on her phone began to sound
unfamiliar. Someone winks. The room
blushes with candlelight. Glasses
of red wine flicker through her head
like a kinetoscope. She remembers
what it’s like to be charmed. No one
will contain her wildfire body
tonight. She’s not afraid to die
a third time. There’s a rabbit’s foot
in her purse. The tiny white toes chase her.
I should get goosebumps more often
because you’ll kiss me with your fevered lips
and move the pillow from behind my head
and pull the ribbon out of my hair
and tie my wrists together in a bow
like a ballerina’s ankle and twirl me on
my front I’ll be more comfortable
forgetting I’ve got a figure at all
still watching my reflection in the dark
screen the way I saw Alicia Silverstone
with that yellow plaid skirt in Clueless
the first time I wondered why I didn’t look
like perfection instead I’ll ask you
to finish off on my face so I can’t see
myself which I hate except when you call
me baby which I love but makes me wish
you’d carry me like an English bulldog
the ones that are so ugly they’re almost cute
I shiver when you squeeze my thigh with your thumb
and pinky finger at the same time
it hurts
to both want and not want something
so badly I’ll say I love you so I can come
up with a list of reasons you don’t that are
easier for me to believe than nothing
to do with the size of the space between my fingers
anything besides
the scope of the cosmos
the color of kisses you left on my chest
Dead Girls
I was ready for one of us to die
because that would have made sense—
the drowning drunk or junkie
grasping at a raft of rosary beads.
I wasn’t prepared for it to be anyone else.
I didn’t know her, but I knew of her. I always knew
who the pretty ones were. Time moved slowly
after they announced it. At a friend’s house for lunch,
we couldn’t eat, just sat quietly for what felt
like weeks, and I wished it had been me. I still feel guilty
for skipping the funeral. I prayed for her family,
even if I didn’t believe it, and less so now.
I know I’m not supposed to understand
why I’m here when my faith was in substance,
tinting my lips blue; why girls die with tiny gold
crosses hanging from around their necks.
Lily Gavazov lives in Hillsborough, N.C., where she is a writer-in-residence. She is working on a fiction manuscript. Her work has appeared in Sad Girls Club Lit and Please See Me. More at lilygavazov.com.