POETRY BY KAT GIORDANO
WHY BEES STING (EVEN KNOWING WHAT WILL HAPPEN)
i’m not talking about the wave of rage
that comes when one is cut off
in traffic, or buying groceries, that blip
of a primal urge to snap a neck,
disappearing too soon to be
when she’d wound him,
disappearing at night to buy drugs
and re-emerge remorseless,
a hot-air gaslight full of bile
and fake babies, what i pictured
was not a cartoon death,
some kind of petty punchline.
to tear each shred of flesh from her small body,
wanted her skin in ribbons through the cracks
in my fingers. a novice, lacking the right
vocabulary for violence, I pictured
clenching some vague organ,
relishing fistfuls of something crimson and soft.
in the old tradition, wasting nothing,
i’d floss the meat from my teeth with sinew,
my neck a carabiner keyring of bitch bones,
knowing all the while this vicious unwinding
of entrails like streamers from a sad piñata
is still a holier sacrament than she gave
him with this body, when it was still
when i could still wonder
why bees sting, even knowing
what will happen.
lately i call so many things garbage
that when i went to go take out my trash
last week, i couldn’t find the word.
i hate how much irony it takes
to keep the motor running, the lights on
in the useless room behind my eyes
where one mirror pouts into another
quoting lines from a movie
written by somebody else.
sometimes i wish comparing a lover to
a summer’s day was still up for grabs,
that i could look at a sunset and
honest-to-god, actually buy it.
i want to turn to you and sigh something
that doesn’t come out of a can,
like, “when you swipe your fingers
between my thighs like that
it’s like someone smashing
the motherfucking like button
on all of my tweets at once,”
so hideous and hot it burns down
every Wal-Mart® on the planet.
but then where would you go
when you wanted to find me?
Kat Giordano is a poet and massive crybaby in Pittsburgh, PA. Her poems have appeared in Indigent Press, Rat’s Ass Review, The Cincinnati Review, Up The Staircase Quarterly, and others. They have also been known to show up trembling on people’s doorsteps in the middle of the night, too traumatized to explain what they’ve seen. She is a co-editor of Philosophical Idiot and can usually be found overindulging in her shoddy mental health at katgiordano.com or on Twitter at @giordkat