Three Poems


tell me about the pulp in your lungs;

the way you mash up bullets with your mouth, grain and rough and telling me to eat. You push the lead through your teeth, and you are holding me too close, grabbing my jaw, see finally, and finally. I can’t help thinking of the sesame seeds I ate as a child &mother and still, all the rest. How long you lectured me, wanting to watch me avalanche on your still moving body. We kept going like this, carcasses, until the dog pushed its wet nose against my melting skin,

“Hannah, it is morning again,” linen and tar for breakfast.

 Porno for Angels

after James Tiptree Jr. and Alice Bradley Sheldon

The quivering girl opens her eyes and you tremble beneath her. Her lips open and close, and you want to be her mouth which reeks so strongly of velvet and velvet skin, its pale allotments, and you are half child again. Kissing cherry blossoms and the blood around your ankles, finally not thinking of men. And she is so perfect, so delicate, you want to be the silk that loosely drapes, no hangs, on her small body, you want to be the words she fills her mouth with, bending her lips like custard, you want her to say your name always, so to not be forgotten by the precious things, like the birds your father fed every Sunday, all those days at the park with the sun just like that. You can almost touch her and smell the way her body is like butter. The girl does not move. But you know, and you know; if only you could get the stench of spring out of your underwear.

Leaning Backward & In Heels

bobby says, now skip your rocks stitch and blue. but your hands are only large enough for ribbons. bobby says, there are no such things as ribbons. you spent too many days hop scotch; oh and the moon. Like how your mother’s blue house threw stones, all the while, speaking in a language your mouth is too small for. and bobby says, use your words slowly, marble mouth. you are not wide enough for that. mother, not either. you spent so long sentimental don’t you know, not even the ocean, not even the moon. at least you said that once in a dream. Mother and child remembering that much.

Eleanor Allen-Henderson grew up in Tucson, AZ. She loves the desert and her friends. Her current apartment is less than 200 square feet that she makes less lonely with poems and pictures of her parents. You can occasionally find her ranting about war and other bullshit she doesn't like. Her bottles of choice are Orangina and the tears of boys.

Photo credit: Audrey Molloy