POETRY BY JULIA LAXER
MEN I STALK ON THE INTERNET
Who wants my dead flowers? My hands are withered enough. Who wants my inconsequential feelings, the bandwidth of nothingness to absolution? Give me degradation, The Grecian Urn, and an unholy mouth to suffocate. I have all the feelings. Yes. Don’t stroke your corn like there is any silk left within this husk. Your eyes are a character of unsleeping. I write in looms. My hands turned two sparrows, then ghosts. Don’t give a damn about birds; about words… Wearing gold necklaces, like the sin of royal suns and money. Alchemist, grand sayings, and trees around me. I’ve charmed all those boring snakes. They come when I call. Devious and of no sorrow, I eat the marrow off; shimmering. To be verbose is one thing but to be forgiving is another. Wearing waist-constricting silences each time I don’t address you. Why do I love you, one who does not give me anything? Emotional labor. Like latex. Holding me and without any powder.
For Sylvia Plath
Fragrant flowers in winter. There was no one to build bouquets for… Steal flowers? Empty cufflinks. I am unbroken, but still. Walking. Still walking still walking still walking. I see snow drops and think of my mother. How she survived cancer and is still loved by my father. How their love was renewed when he made her eggs in the morning and drove her to appointments and even remembered to pick her up. —Yes the same father who dropped me on my head when I was two days old. Abandoned when I was still new; why I have daddy issues? …Sylvia, what do you think? It’s what killed you, right? Flowers and winter. They kill me. But they’re still alive, and I go home, and I don’t wash the dishes. Waiting for a man to do that is like waiting for an answer to my own questions. I don’t wash the dishes, and I’m still alive to forcefully walk each day like a ghost of my mind. Hallways and floorboards creaking walking creaking, still creaking as I’m walking under the drenched magnolia that suffers because it is not yet in bloom.
Who will tell the rest of the story, the parts where I was sleeping or pilled-out?
The parts where the lavender metallic on my lids
sparkled so brightly against
the sun strobe / night shade
that I was blind.
Blind not by choice, but blind by decisivenessless.
Not deciding right.
Not dividing sentences right.
Thinking of change in terms of colors or animals, instead of safe and health.
Right and wrong felt like railroad ties all strung together.
Wrong sides of the tracks, knowing
sidetracks to everything. Knowing.
Inside the time I fainted lies
Inside the times I opened lies
Inside the times I spoke lies
Inside the time I loved lies
Sky sky sky—
And, even the horizon can’t catch the fallen…
Julia Laxer lives for the stories and writes in the afternoons from a messy desk in a rose-lit room in Portland, Oregon. She uses performance art and spiritual practice to explore archetype and ritual and writes poems, essays, erotica, and memoir. Julia won the Orlando Prize in Nonfiction from A Room of Her Own (AROHO) in 2014, and her work is featured in magazines, journals, and anthologies including Luna Luna Magazine, The Los Angeles Review, So-to-Speak, and Zócalo Public Square. In spring of 2018 she premiered “The Girl Who Stole Spring,” a modern retelling of the myth of Persephone. Julia is obsessed with rose and oud perfumes, Lana Del Rey, and wants to eat all the peaches.