spring/summer 23, Parla come mangi & F-WORDS
Poetry by Monet Parker
Hacernos Estrellas by Aura Hurtado (2022)
spring/summer 23
apr.
i held onto love’s hand as if falling
in a month of returning warmth
my breath talked back with frost-fogged words
who i will become
when i return to the house
i first practiced starving
may.
late spring bugs soothed my dying friend
frail baby bleeding in the back garden
unaware of his slowing heart
the days leading to loss were still soiled in grief
shadowed mourning of our last walk
in Bickford park each step echoed last
the final heaven-ish night under misted-moonglow
my family circled a cigarette
hoping he felt love longer in dog years
jun.
time handed me a nineteenth year
as the candle wax melted into sweet butter frosting
i whispered more more as i blew my wish
on that 21st night i opened my mouth
for the butch girl in lipstick cause i couldn’t
cry & i wanted to be crushed
july.
rosemary & thyme came back in bloom
my mom called me pretty for the first time
since i told her i was more than a girl
sun-spotted cheeks & plaited hair
caught the attention of old sweaty men
bellies hanging out on the pavement
aug.
on a drive to the antique market
I accidentally dropped my diary out the window
like a kid would
watched through the mirrors
as it sped behind me flying twisting
like some kind of magic trick
i learnt to forgive but slept with the lights on
pulled clothes off my hangers & felt grateful
as i filled boxes for beginnings
sept.
i cut my hair after dinner
apologized before my love yous
& goodbyes
i slept the whole train ride
clutching onto an empty seat
as home shifted again
returning that night was dark but my hands were as young
as my skirt was short & her teeth were white
so we kissed & i didn't have to think
this may be me at my best
Parla come mangi
Nonna once told me the taste of pastina was the taste of the south. With spoonfuls I could make out the shape of the stars in my mouth, calling me closer to a village covered with ache. She could stand by the stove till her knees buckled and back ached. In the kitchen warmth, she’d watch as we scarfed down the devotion of her calloused hands. It wasn't till she died that Dad perfected her pomodoro. Good grief to the Buon appetito that rolled off his tongue; the same sound as hers. When I’m consumed with missing her, and my stomach hurts, I remember my body is made of all the dust—from the crushed stars and dying skin, to stained wooden spoons and her recipe papers handwritten in half-English cursive. Today I sliced my finger, bled red across the cutting thing. Left my meal half made and tainted with pain. I sucked my wound till the gushing stopped. Dad called to ask if I'm eating enough, scared the importance of sit-down dinner has been lost since leaving home.
I promise I'm fed
I say. We learn to love at
a kitchen table.
F-WORDS
forgiveness
the fitted sheet pinned up on a line
slow dances in midnight wind
damp in apologies from habitual accidents
the stained linen smells fresh come morning
forgiven by the passing night.
firsts
the first time i was touched was on the ground
in the balmy night panting and pretty
his salty tongue lingered in my breath
so i swallowed my own fingers like magic
when we ate he devoured both our servings
in the parts i can't recognize
there's no room for my hunger.
failure
puppy won’t stop chewing the chair legs
we tried to train him how to sit heel paw
but he doesn’t understand he's a dog
without our human want for perfection
he continues to destroy
and love seven times harder.
fires
when the house burnt down the furniture stood still
melted were the memories of a body molded
into a mattress purified by a passionate light
that only wanted to spread and dance and
i forgive because i fear
i am the flame.
flirting
i shape the next lover's voice to fit in my throat
hand her a mic to become the star
plagued by want and the queerness of intimacy
in a place it's not supposed to be.
feminine
under the weight of my floral printed down
i wept the way women on screen do
folded at my half point like pocketbook
in my fridge is a box of strawberries
puffy and red i eat them with soft hands
in one go i stand across from my mirror
engulfed in desire to witness despair.
family
my family's grief mellows with a cigarette
i think it's because our bones are the same
since my dog died i am again the youngest
meaning all i taste is nostalgia
from a time falsely charged with joy
sisters in the attic trying to live right
i can feel it this time
she’ll make it out.
falling
as seasons drifted in my girl decided to love
through the orange and the cold
by the time tuesday arrives i can't remember
the last time we traded touch
but when the sun comes through my window
spreading its warmth across the back of my neck
i’m reminded only she has been this close.
Monet Parker is a 19-year-old student, poet, and visual artist. Born and raised in Toronto, they are currently finishing their BA in Creative Writing at Concordia University in Montreal, QU. When they are not writing about the moon, they can be found in their kitchen baking cookies, cakes, and pies from scratch. As a gender-queer lesbian, Monet’s work is invested in the voice of femininity through expressions of self-identity and bodily intimacy.