The City She Was by Carmen Giminez Smith

Author:Carmen Giminez Smith
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: University Press of Colorado
Published: 2011-08-14T16:00:00+00:00

The If of Omission

dayone:

At the edge of the attic: a solution. Do I wrap myself in tissue and tuck myself into the scrapbook that smells of vodka, of cigarettes, of industrial glue? If I could wriggle out of this geography, I’d memorize the future and bring it back to my progeny. Instead I’m harsh-voiced bridal party, a husk of that. My voice is so shrill. The lunatic calls and I can barely hold the phone.

dayten:

Fragrant kiss on my neck, Polaroid #3. Unlikely I’ll find another photograph to tell the B side. The reparation provided to me is known as eclectic beauty. I catch my eye in the mirror, distract my very own loins. That helps the day pass, that taboo vaudeville.

dayonehundred:

I’m leaving my greasy print on all surfaces, even the superficial hi-bye friendship. And night falls, and the ocean swallows oil ships, and the deer die in our grilles—we’re a series of mishaps, this vista and me. I swallow compassion from a blue round pill. It soothes my jaw and reminds me I’m not all edge.

daysevenhundred:

For years I’ve not taught anything shameful.

dayonethousand:

Little book of Syphilis. Epistolary book Written to the Latin’s Ombudsman. The book of Irritating boils. The book of Soul-show-You-the-Door. The book of Guttersniping and Chivalry. book of yr. Deeds. Deeds to the Webb’d Hand. Tome on Inchoate Nations, Guide to Wax Seals And their Replicae, What and How of the Republic as told by a Rebel, A Mash note to Step Theory Disaster, how to Make A Quarantine, Encyclopedia of Creatures that Afflict, Dictionary of Ruin and Quilts, How to Gather 7 Horsewomyn, How to Finance yr. Pestilence. The Book of Books and in it, chapter on Boats that Carry you to islands of Your Own Making.

dayfivethousand:

If I could take myself up, if I could climb that vine, if I could give my passport to the Prez with my scent all over it, if I could sever the emollient impulse from my mane. If I had to travel without looking, if I dared mention names from the book of those days. If I could my hairs in your bed, and if you could your blood. If we had all been enough with the loaf split in half. If only I could have a large old bust of you, dilated with starpoints.

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