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[ Crook of My Elbow, Cotton-Balled, Band-aid Covering, Out the Car Window ]
Crook of my elbow, cotton-balled, band-aid covering,
out the car window, dangles in public smelling of
clinic, no need for sleeves. Sun surfacing the edge. I
let them see I’ve been drained. My blood taken and after,
a dream state. Someone inspects my red velvety syn-
tax, rushing platelets, blue under all that light. My
astronomy fluctuates past centuries, wide lenses
ready to destroy a lonely lab. The thief
I let draw seven vials has a pretty life. By tonight,
no evidence of a hurtful mark a slow waking up and into,
organized by focal points. My virus stays
low-key, volcanic. Salivating, they call for more.
I won’t let them have it.
I Stole Your Make-up Bag Because I Wanted Luxury
Those girls we knew in Comme de Garçon.
Their boyfriends and their sports.
Parties in the valley where we tried to pass as affluent.
That burger joint we both worked at.
I flipped meat for 8 hours in the back.
You at the register, remember?
I worked my way up to a new uniform.
Then drive-thru as I ran the front.
Meth in my soda, mouth chattering a perfect grin.
We swiped five-dollar bills for cigarettes.
Said they owed us and we were right.
You kept your bag in the office.
Did your makeup in the bathroom before going out.
We caught rides from your friends.
Blasting Black Flag I sat wired in the back seat.
One late-night shift I wanted it so I took it.
Kept quiet like a stranger as you searched.
No one knew where it went.
Until the footage showed it was me.
I wanted to gather the glamour.
To look fierce like you said.
To hold in my hand a product.
A mask of my own making.
A look to carry on my face.
I know a poem is not an apology.
I know that memory is porous.
Shannon you who smeared glint on her eyes to cover the flaws…
Pursuing a dignity that slipped from our hands.
What I took left you empty.
Stripped of your armor.
Naked as an outline.
Fresh prey for the wolves that circled you.
The Living End
mouthfeel of a knife’s edge teases our death
my deviant anger to your tender tilted tongue
drives us in and closer blue jeans grit and rage
a deep red ribbon sewn into the brocade
collision attached like we didn’t choose this
a carcass wrapped when it came to us
on the side of a road we find ourselves
making little speeches from within
the demi monde rusted america
illegal in the kisses we have shared
when they come kicking in our love the door
won’t save us you’ve got the blade and the wad
of cash I’ve got the blood lust of a rose
listen baby take the wheel I’m on it
Dare Williams is a Queer HIV-positive poet, facilitator, and literary worker rooted in Southern California. He has received support/fellowships for his work from Brooklyn Poets, Breadloaf, Tin House, and Vermont Studio Center. He has been awarded a California Arts Council Performance Grant and a Peter Taylor Teaching Fellowship from The Kenyon Writers Workshop. His work has been featured in Kenyon Review, Foglifter, Poetry Northwest, and elsewhere. He is an associate poetry editor at Hooligan Magazine and received his MFA from the Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College. His favorite historical feud involves the ins and outs of the members of Fleetwood Mac. The twists and turns unfold in a way that plays out like a drama akin to Ancient Greece, and well, we get some great art out of it all.
