FOUR POEMS by ANGEL ROSEN
IN CAHOOTS
I suddenly became worried
that the ceiling is leaking but then
I realized there is no ceiling because
I am not living in a house,
there has never been a ceiling here
I look up and see infinity
because I live in a tree but then
I realized that I can’t climb trees
and I don’t remember
the last time I was on the ground
or who invented whichever fruit
I am growing then I realized that
I have scars for injuries I have not yet
sustained and I am madly in love
with myself there should be a documentary
or at least a leash on that dog
okay, I’m in the tree and still,
somehow, the ceiling is leaking?
Everything is all ruined around me and
any explanation would be too insane
to tell my neighbors.
Who, by the way,
live on the ceiling.
DEAD WEIGHT
The diabolic is curious about me
and my crunch. It bites down hard in the morning,
I have a bruise by lunch time that I smooth over
with a frostbitten palm. At some point,
one of has to decide which heirlooms to burn
and which to burden onto our great nieces.
On my third day as an optimist,
I've decided to stay bitter.
I must take a break
from uploading my grievances
to attend the roadkill seminar.
I will learn how to play opossum,
embodying the silent "o."
I will learn how to play flattened housecat.
Will you come to my shoebox funeral?
Donate my bones to an osteologist?
Maybe I'll sizzle in the California heat
and make any passersby very sad
and sick to their stomachs.
I come with a surge of horrible speeches:
“House Burned Down” on a Post-It Note,
“Only The Good Die Young” on a teen’s grave marker,
“2XL” on my t-shirt’s tag.
I want to buy another hour of sleep from the souvenir shop.
It’s all foam from the tap, I only get a zizz.
I wonder if anyone notices me
before I inconveniently remind them of everything.
EVEN THE CORNEA
Someday, I will make a lemon cake
and be in my right mind.
Someday, I will see a quasar
and be out in left field.
I will dedicate my life’s work
to inventing the Pegasus or
making dodo birds unextinct.
I want to be in a science book,
with a permanent marker drawing
of a sad face beside my photograph.
Someday, I will be half my size
amidst decay in a pine box,
and be out of mind, out of sight,
cornea checked, then death certificate.
They will stop manufacturing pennies,
but I’ll still find them all the time.
I’ll have a life that doesn’t have a password.
Little hands will use my urn as a drum,
my hearse for crash-testing, and I’ll be blamed
for the shortage of all the world’s cheese.
An old friend looks right through me and asks
What was all of this for?
The truth is, if I knew, I would’ve never done it.
OF COLLATERAL
my ears are ringing
because i just came home &
while i am still underwater looking for a circlet, i
hear you saying “you just haven’t been yourself lately”
which self,
which lately? i have always been unacceptable,
and i hate showing up but i do it because i don’t have anywhere to go,
riding on empty down the freeway being tailed
i hate you for making me [ ] when i have better things
to do than be available or touched.
ie i need to be unsightly and ashen
ie i need to be bones & i near retreat
ie i need to be one color in a kaleidoscope,
and a different color in x-ray. hue of malignancy,
batter up, echo hanging in the closet,
the last line in a bad play
god my empty middle eats me core-outward
hurrying through my slants,
jack-o-lantern smile & held through the afterbirth
frostbite & krispy kreme
engagement party hosted by a knot
bleach in a shot glass
plural now, i show you the me you’re asking for,
i love how relieved you are
now please don’t make me [ ]
i have better things to do and this self can’t
tolerate you this close,
take the exit wound as collateral
i really owe you one
Angel Rosen (she/her) is a lesbian poet living near Pittsburgh, PA. Her published works can be found on angelrosen.com/publications or on any social media @axiopoeticus. She is passionate about art, community, and talking about mental illness. She can be found eating a good steak and listening to The Dresden Dolls.