Lauren Brazeal currently teaches in Dallas. She’s the author of two chapbooks, Zoo for Well-Groomed Eaters (from Dancing Girl Press), and Exuviae (from Horse Less Pess); and her first full-length poetry collection, Gutter, is due from Yes Yes Books in August of 2018. Her individual poems have appeared or are forthcoming in DIAGRAM, Smartish Pace, Verse Daily, Barrelhouse and Forklift, Ohio.
~the following poem was first published in Barrelhouse (2016) and nominated for a Best of the Net award.
~~it also appears in Brazeal’s upcoming collection Gutter (Yes Yes Books, 2018)
To Jennifer Love-Hewitt: I Saw You at Fendi Last Week—I Was the Little Mohawked Squatter Punk Panhandler
TRANSMITTED VIA FACSIMILE
RE: Los Angeles County case #24789. Letter was balled up and tied to a padlock, found thrown through the southernmost window at Love-Hewitt estate. Status: Unsolved
If I had real access
to the internet I’d follow and unfollow and refollow you
on twitter, proving how relentless I can be and
I’d unfriend you every night
so you’d wake up
every corresponding morning
to my sweet smile widening
your friend requests.
I’d celebrate each homecoming as though it was my first.
Oh Jen, you’d ache
and love and keep
my slender hands wrist-deep inside you, cradling
your weaker structures. Forget forever
how us girls evolved to cake
foundation on unsightly ruptures. Never beg
for mercy from a man again;
curl your toes for my forgiving tongue instead and crack
a little extra space
between those legs.
I’d rip you
from that pretty red Moschino dress,
and hook your thorax on a pin to keep you
splayed and still, and posed for action;
like a vulva-colored lady praying
mantis— I’ll show you other flower-mimic
predators we mutually
relate to if you let me in
to this big terra-cotta
house of yours. What did it cost you?
I bet, combined,
our scars would trace God’s very spine.
It makes me sick how pitch
perfectly alike we are: both of us women
of our sex to serve a world drunk,
Though you’re the one they think about
when they’re settling for me.
You stuck-up bitch I’d love
to show you how it feels
to withstand hypodermic teeth;
be overlooked, replaceable,
dangling just inside the serpent’s reach. Jenny,
stay the hell away from Fendi.
Avoid the bench I’ve claimed
as my new country. Don’t play
down in the dirt or you’ll find shovelfuls
of pinworms up your skirt.
We’re not lover/twins, Love-Hewitt,
not even friends.
But I could be the orphan that you chose.
We’d laugh and eat together like on the show.
—On set you’ll share vacation pics of us
together on your phone.
I want to hear you say it:
without her I’d just be alone.