FOUR POEMS by NAT RAUM
i want to fall in love but instead i feast
on table scraps for so long, i forget no one
can subsist on girl dinner alone. after
dusk, you’re liable to catch me ravenous, crouched
over accidental kills—i should not pretend i am
immune from becoming the monster, spine
unslacked against plaster apartment walls.
i am not quick to lay blame; once discovered,
it all comes out in one great display of fury. still,
i cannot use this as an excuse to become any
harder. i purge venom from the well
of the wound. i eat supper, bloat to bursting.
poem in which the horrors persist
After sterling-elizabeth arcadia
i go to bed, get off, and fall
asleep in the first minutes
of the afternoon. in my dream,
someone passes me a shot
of mystery liquor and i take it
and it’s fireball. i haven’t touched
the stuff since halloween freshman
year of college, when i first realized
men could act with malintent.
before i graduated high school, i was
in the commons room and some
one said, about my situationship,
you know he treats you shitty right?
and still, nothing stuck. i’ve been
remembering the nightmares again
lately. i’ve been feeling the surge
of sea, the impossibility of crossing
it, the warpspeed elevator cars
and holes in the backs of my front
teeth. sometimes you appear
and i always lose you in the end.
serial killing is a hobby, not a career
what i mean is fish are the last to recognize water. what i mean is i often find wolves’ teeth hidden behind the wool which surrounds my eyes. the forces which wreak havoc on heartstrings do not usually announce their intentions before commencing their crusade. i am coddled by the light, ambushed by the dark—i was built like this. will i perish like this?
sonnet for my fucking sanity
you fight decay like it’s not the steadiest
thing you know, like falling apart wouldn’t be
enough to save your mortal soul—you know,
like the way you’ve always envisioned your want
circling you, pack of hyenas, and squeezing
until the tell-tale cracks of broken ribs bray
forth from beleaguered body. you can’t see
past doors which close and stay locked; remember
rock bottom? the hangnail sliver of moon
in sunset sky as you drank and drank, longing
to taste like something someone might order?
when you add too many ingredients
to your drink, it still bites your palate, but all
its notes are gone, washed of their complexity.
nat raum is actually five genders in a trenchcoat. They'd love it if you followed their zinestagram, @ramenzines, or visited them on the web at natraum.com.