[MORE BLOOD IN THE EAST VILLAGE] the laundromats continue
their coined cycle I’ll need more than just four hours to be saved
egg is French for bump that closeness to having a belly full
& seeing you in Alphabet City this morning I sat
outside my face so many pounds of us half out before me
(wishing my two little nephews a wonderful first snow)
days walk in my mouth en route to my liver’s hem
I sink night lover to lover the greenness of small
suitcases & movings
the month of sun I pick up wet leaves & press
them to my cheeks the ground is cold it’s readying itself for us
I sat outside in a bathtub garden planning trips instead of food
Frank you’re shooting me you remain horizontal
I trade in stinkbugs for a whole almond
HOW MUCH WHISKEY AM I SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEFORE I BECOME A GHOST
I don’t know
what it is with people
dropping before the winter.
I take the F train to East Village
where I sit on a bench
in Tompkins Square.
There’s a woman with Leslie’s eyes.
I’ve never met Leslie,
but the woman in the park
has her eyes & she’s feeding
the plump black squirrels.
Maman doesn’t register
on the donor list because
Dad doesn’t want her eyes
to open on a different tree.
No one in America wants my mad blood,
no one in America wants my colon
blossoming pomegranate-sized tumors,
or my unfeminine uterus, unable
to carry an almond.
There must be manuals
on how to keep everything in.
-How to stitch your lips together,
glue eyelashes closed- for the wake.
But no matter how you scrub skin,
bone is bone is bone
& the smell of death,
the loss of pigment,
still lingers behind the ear.
Ines Pujos is a Poet living in the Bay Area and studying to become an Expressive Arts Therapist. She holds a Poetry MFA from NYU and is the poetry editor for Print Oriented Bastards. Her poems have appeared in: The Adroit Journal, Bone Bouquet, Day One, Gulf Coast, and Hayden's Ferry, among others. For more information, check out her website at: inespujos.com