THREE POEMS by MADISON LAZENBY
Saving Room for Dessert
I’m trying to prove something / I google how to safely send cookies in the mail / an AI chatbot reminds me / that safe is a relative term / I remember waking up for breakfast / to find a hole punched in the drywall / just outside the kitchen / my childhood dream is to own a cupcake shop / we specialize in group birthday parties in corporate settings / being intentional is my passion / I want to have the chance to appreciate you / over an open flame / I use oil & spices like I really have freewill / I cream butter & brown sugar like it might save a life / I want you standing behind me / I want you with chocolate cake in our teeth / I am interested in the future / I still hate philosophy / the economy / heat waves / I love my Kitchenaid / let me cook you dinner / this is not a political statement
Lecture on Masochism
I’m not particularly original. I used to think
I could never sleep alone again. I think about everything
except the pilling sheets—mainly you
licking my right thigh. Fully clothed,
you giggle into my skin. When I gasp,
I am confessing that I have been taught shame
& where to hold it. That is, why I closed my eyes then
& now I stare at a popcorned ceiling for hours.
Each bump could be a security camera
or a breadcrumb if I squint long enough.
I recount each knee-length dress I owned
specifically for Sunday School, how many times
I raised my hand in class or cried when someone
begged to do my makeup because it would be fun.
I have sinned across borders. I have been mistaken
for a tea-drinker, a cat-lady, a gas pump.
I have scars on both of my knees from tripping
& falling over two different hard metal objects
at summer camp—had to go to the Nurses’ Cabin
& everything. No stitches, but they baptized me
with hydrogen peroxide anyway, soaking my toes
in my purple foam flip flops. You examine what is left
of those summers, pale lines the length of a front tooth
surrounded by stubble, & ask which one hurt more?
1 Corinthians 13:4-8
I’ve always wanted an interesting life,
but most days I’m grateful
for an inspiring sex life. I waited
for marriage so long because I thought
that the law was the only obligation
that could convince someone
to place their hand on the small
of my back during Ed Sheeran’s
Greatest Hits. I still want
a white wedding—winter in New York,
if we can swing it—but I don’t want
to be greeted like a stranger
when I slide into bed later that night,
wearing a matching set softer
than the top of a baby’s head,
my ankles & knees swollen
from my flawless execution
of the Cupid Shuffle. I’m no theologian,
& it’s too late to be a nun,
but I know that people fucked
in the Bible—Old & New Testament.
It’s beautiful. There’s a sign on I-65
reminding me that hell is real.
I don’t usually think of loneliness
as only one place.
Madison Lazenby (she/her/hers) is a Pushcart Prize-nominated poet newly based in Syracuse, NY. She graduated from Hamilton College and has received support from Brooklyn Poets, the Kettle Pond Writers’ Residency, and the Looking Glass Rock Writers’ Conference. Her work has been recognized and published by the Academy of American Poets, Anti-Heroin Chic, Gigantic Sequins, the Passionfruit Review, and Metphrastics. Her chapbook “Dirty Kitchen” is available through Ghost City Press. She can be found on Instagram and Twitter (not “X”) under @mad_mads_maddie.