Sex & Death
Alyssa Montgomery
Chipped Tooth Press 2015
Confirmation seven years old: starch white shirts and plaid swarming like flies, and then at once single file. at the end of the line: he laughs and tells me I smell like cigarettes, as if I’d done something wrong. across the street: I gnaw on alabaster cardboard and sip blood, absolved of sins I didn’t commit. in the auditorium: she points at her father’s name on the door; I wonder where my father lives. ten years: my brother swears to god in stories taller than he is; of course they must be true. at the power company: I find out what it means to have the bill in my name; it’s not what I thought.
classroom B110: her gaze accuses me of ancient mistakes; I wear her target like a crown of thorns. fourteen: he hands me twenty dollars for my mastery of Orwell, the price of his conscience. in the kitchen: she sleeps on the floor with shattered glass; I sweep as the school bus ignorantly passes. twenty: smoking in plaid with god’s swears scrawling my conscience, I swill blood and the lies go down smooth.
Corpus Christi god is just another old man laying claim to my body, with that divine right. he poses on my pale altar, anointing me with the knowledge that no matter where I touch myself he was there first.
Catacombs In my coy reflection, a thousand eyes peruse each inch of tainted flesh. Prudence swats away invisible hands, and I think, Oh, God. In his wet closet, briny drops sting ragged eyes and vanish in the frigid slate. My sincerest apologies for nagging the linoleum, when I whisper, Oh, God. In a stained pew, minutes linger in ears that closed at time’s dawn. Fingernails extort black blood from white thighs, as I recite, Oh, God.
In her grey chamber, dull walls regard us both as perfect but crippled dolls. Her static sheets spell out the day’s misfortunes, and I answer, Oh, God. In my cherished field, ivory garments twirl in the crisp air of freedom. Locked eyes smuggle me from his stiff grasp, and I scream.
Confession Forgive me Father for I have sinned; funny how well you taught me.
Illegally I search pockets for pennies; inspired by your Charity.
Triduums pass in my ambiguous absences; trained exercises of Diligence. Rogue liquids cross red lips by the liter; reminded of your Temperance. Passions eclipse my callous conscience; practiced in models of Chastity. ice;
Bitterness imbues me with materialistic malbettered by your Kindness.
Smug expressions illustrate my intelligence; schooled in infinite Humility. Father converts fury to a futile Amen; fuck your Forgiveness.
Consummation Our Holy Mother of Fuck(ing) says the choice is mine to make. but I don’t writhe with Desire for virile skin, or cry over the Sanctity of my own. I don’t Genuflect in streets or pews, or base my reflection in the eyes of my Father. I don’t Pray for anything but money, and I don’t Fuck for the coins that didn’t come. There is no hope for truth, but to drag myself to Eden where I’ll whisper to Eve: Submission is Betrayal
Creation yeah, I didn’t say no; but what’s a yes to one who speaks just to hear his own voice? maybe, I said a hail mary; but what’s a prayer to one who worships just when begging isn’t enough? okay, I said I’m sorry; but what’s an apology to one who forgives just for the price of admission? no, I didn’t mean it; but what’s meaning to one who thinks just in terms of truth?
Canonization I wore that skirt because they said I had to, but if I knew what plaid meant to deviant eyes, I would’ve hid my smile. I ate the wafers because they said I had to, but if I knew what bread meant to kneeling old ladies, I would’ve chewed it faster. I took my meds because they said I had to, but if I knew what pills meant to deadbeat dads, I would’ve swallowed them all. I kept her secret because she said I had to, but if I knew what lying meant, to a non-believer, I would’ve bit my tongue. I let him touch me because he said I had to, but if I knew what a kiss meant to a fucking crook, I would’ve covered my mouth.
I did this shit because I thought I had to, but if I knew what submission meant to unholy tyrants, I would’ve vomited blasphemy. And I read those books because they said I had to, but I learned what words meant to a girl who had none; I should’ve used them sooner.
Charisms i figure its fine (i do) because how could it be anything else but fine if i’m still alive obviously its fine. i wouldnt say all right though because its not really right not okay either but it is fine i guess. just. fine. thats what you say when you dont want to say yes or you cant say no you say fine and it sounds like you are saying something but really its only saying that you know it doesnt matter what you say. i thought (i really did) i thought hed kill him cause how could he do anything else when he found out obviously he would kill him. i thought he would cut his heart out with a fine tipped sword while i hid in the rosebush and then id grab his bloody hands and say thank you daddy you made it all right you got him and hed say shh. its all right hes gone i know better now (i know) they wont stop anything obviously i know they just say. ah, its fine. and keep smiling in the mirror. ha funny how it really is and how its all so fine and frail and fucked that my words disintegrate on contact.
i guess someday i wont rememer and and itll be all right obviously it will because how else do people live they just. forget. they go from fine to refined like sand burnt into glass until finally you can see right through them. i admit i shouldnt be sorry when i write things obviously no if i’m just telling what happened (minus the finer details) but. truth is. i’m sorry about the truth. but i figure its fine (i do) because how could it be anything else but fine if i’m still alive obviously its fine.
Epistle this man sounds familiar; a familial voice, slightly related, but without a sense of vocabulary. his seduction is literal, too real to reel me; that line snapped when first I flirted figuratively. we kiss; my lips recite a loveless soliloquy. his voice loses scope in this silence; i long to sing.
this man is deaf, dumb; safely stupid. he looks straight at my words as i lower them into his view. i’d like to spit them, to vomit them as vaguely as letters allow, to force further study. he does not hear me anyway. i want to speak, for fuck’s sake, but the point is to be mute.
Epilogue I looked for a knight, too, In every eye that took Any time for me. Eyes were All that took the time (for a time); But for you I guess god couldn’t spare Any sight in the end (or at all). She battered me, too; everything I loved smashed under her fists. I Assumed hate was in her nature, But it was also in her bottle (the one thing her fists loved With a hint of mercy). I walked dream gardens, too (with lovers clear as day), but Reality blurred my knight vision. Foresight loves only ladies who don’t Tend their own gardens; they can Afford to call dandelions weeds. I tried masking hell, too, but life only Tried me harder. Unread books and Pitiful photos donned whiskey
Rings; each vase tied with lace was Flicked full of ashes, and my flowers Violated nightly (just like yours). Then he saved me, too, the hero Who attacked life’s laws, whose View from his bar was that of god. He plucked me from hell and Forgot me in purgatory (at least in Hell we knew what to expect). I wept, too, when I became a Symbol of sin, illiterate in lies (how did we not know better?). They Abandoned their stoned posts to stone us Before strangers could see our paleness Against their dirty glass walls. So I learned, too (in spite of books and Bibles), that real suns don’t swagger. Sharp clothes cut and promises swallow Time and You until they’re too drunk to Keep a straight story; real suns Burn themselves out first.
And I stood, too, at the edge of the Water; if only you had my eyes that Night. Against the black tide (his persuasive Silence pledging Nothing), I saw my Knight, my sun, for the first time, and She looked back (I wish you saw her too).
Alyssa is an obsessive student of American Studies and English at Wheaton College. She wrote so many papers about sex, death, and religion in American literature this year that she started spewing it out as poetry. These poems come from both her sacred heart and her damned soul. Other than writing morose poetry, Alyssa enjoys drinking Franzia and reading Stephen Crane.
Chipped Tooth Press is a writing collective that seeks to instill a love of poetry in even the most relentless of naysayers. We seek out work that bares its teeth and artists who are willing to allow it to do so. Find out more about our press at chippedtoothpress.tumblr.com issuu.com/chippedtoothpress