Morning after the election, November 6, 2024
Annus horribilis, said Queen Elizabeth, when everything went south,
too refined to say merde or drek, or any such word.
Not me. I say every synonym for excrement as the returns come in,
then invent more. I take my black marker and scribble out
the entire month. Go away, November. Make it unhappen.
Five a.m. and the story keeps getting worse.
Four years of him? Annus interminalis. Annus vomitis. Really?
Queen E, I ask you one E. to another. Have we shot ourselves
in the foot, kicked ourselves in the derriere? Pulled down the sky,
a nation of Chicken Littles? Vulgar dumpster man, foolish,
irate rotter racing again for our highest office.
Outside stars like shards of glass still hang in the predawn sky.
We’re caught in a drought that won’t quit. I wade through autumn
detritus . The honeysuckle leaves twist themselves into dust.
Purple fruit on the beautyberry bush hardened into brown pips
too unappetizing for finches to eat.
Did I tell you, E, about my brother? How he died this September?
Just chest pain, boom, and gone for good.
Why do we say “good” anyway when someone’s vanished? My brother
was a man without malice. Now nothing’s there—his apartment rented
to someone else, the engraved pen knife we gave him for his birthday
sitting in my trinket box.
I think, maybe breakfast will cheer me— coffee first, so much coffee,
then a slice of banana bread. What about you Queen E, did you
retreat to royal your parlor hoping for comfort, sip milky tea?
The sweetness of the bread disappears as soon as I swallow,
but the bitter coffee taste stays in my mouth and won’t go away.
words
cinnamon says the bed moonstone malignancy her vertebrae twisted & fell like rain ? a carnival of fireflies lit the grass butter cream says the bed
my sacroiliac pangs I ouch but softly so not to wake Brian the bed quiet now under his long limbs
my dream congeals an auditorium my old teacher with his white-fire mane a promenade of poets— SusanPamMartinJoanneMel— joyous as a Bar Mitzvah not all of us still alive
the table mahogany inlaid with yellow wood lux it says heirloom it says but will our girls want it? when the trees that gave up their wood to us will likely die out
o burning world I say in this morning when no one is awake
my fingers touch the skin on my laptop its sleek design of feathers tumult of yellow & teal
now? says my laptop container of copper zinc plastic even one tenth of an ounce of gold yes I say
The Teeth of Women
Don’t be afraid, for I keep my womb on a leash. I sheath my teeth in a velvet hood.
There is always danger in something worthwhile.
Vagina Dentata—an ancient serpent, a toothéd fish, a Goddess cursed with nether fangs.
Even my mother, the sweetest of women, possessed them. Her daughters felt their presence in her quiet.
This was not a topic for discussion
My father—devoted, tame. Mother wore his love strung round her neck like a gem.
Once I saw her on the toilet, blood dripping from between her legs. Sanguine, welcoming,
the hair mounding beneath her belly in plain sight. And so I learned immodesty.
Today my vagina is quiet, resting at ease. See my gently folded lips,
how they dream of poppies pressed with dark wine.
Ellen Aronofsky Cole’s books include Notes from the Dry Country, (Mayapple Press, 2019) and Prognosis, (Finishing Line Press, 2011.) Journal publications include Bellevue Literary Review, Gargoyle, Little Patuxent Review, Potomac Review, Innisfree, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Fledgling Rag, New Verse News. Ekphrastic Review. She has five poems forthcoming in The Mid-Atlantic Review. Her work was featured on Verse Daily and nominated for Best of the Net.