UNDERNEATH

For days I can’t sleep

after you drag me

to Un Chien Andalou:

slicing my eyeball

squishing ants

that crawl out of my nipple

under your nails.

You hand me a skull

dripping like Artemesia’s John

blood in my palm

swords for pupils.

Sunday we take the train

to Chicago’s Three Arts Club

read No Exit

drink pernod and seltzer

as if we like it.

You say I’m afraid

to drop acid

afraid of what I will find.

I show you:

swallow it with a pink lady

in a bar on Rush Street.

I scrub siren red lips

puffed and cracked

inside out.

No cash for braces.

But you: teeth

even, white

blowing smoke rings

I try not to inhale

hold my breath for days.

THE EDGE OF MORNING

We pass a joint, barely long

enough for a clip. You accuse me

of hiding my sex under tight sheets.

I breathe as deeply as I can. Your words

bounce against the wall, single letters back

and forth: Navratolova slams one ball after a

nother. Chrissie’s flummoxed. Too late to drive

too high to care. And you invoke my mother’s ghost

as you always do this time of night: her hand reaches

from the grave to bless us. I roll more grass, lick the edge

to forget I’ll stumble off to bed with you and blame Mother

for pushing me into your arms.

Chella Courington holds a Doctorate in Literature from the University of South Carolina and pursues an MFA in Poetry from New England College. Her poetry appears in over 35 journals including Karamu, Permafrost, Studio, & Touchstone. Courington’s poem “Lynette’s War” was a finalist in the Winning Writers Sixth Annual War Poetry Contest 2007.

POETRY