MICHAEL RUSSELL
The House is the Dream of the Body
In the bedroom—three planks of wood nailed to the doorframe, deadbolted with a sign that
reads: RAGE. The dresser is matted with rose petals, orchids withered and strewn across The
Dark Phoenix Saga.
Jean Grey is dead.
Her spine limp as a broken promise, corpse held in Cyclops’ arms, the melodrama of a space
opera wrung wet under a water bottle. The Ten of Swords is tucked in The Dark Phoenix Saga
like a bookmark, it warns:
Get out before…
the record player’s static spins
a man into a boyfriend,
a boyfriend into an ex
an ex into a spider
web, each thread, a silk nightgown
for the dream of my body
(a fruit / fly)
woven into a bowl filled with malt
vinegar and dish soap /
Behind the manila curtain, he hums:
Sweetheart, there’s something
about the way you live your life
that makes me want to puke.
When I look at you, I see a wreck
-ing ball, a demolition, a boy
who needs to be fixed, strung,
smacked around like a mannequin /
The record player dreams a man
into a boyfriend, husband, a life
sentence
when, again, he reaches
for the ridge
of my wrist
hands gloved with latex / ivory,
lips blistered / sequined
in coral gossamer, naked, he conjures
the spirit of my rapist. Calls him
into my blankets, mattress, sheets,
hoards the clippings of his fingernails,
drags each syllable
when he asks
Do you like
how strong
I am, boy?
*
In the living room, I wrap my head in plastic
sprout from the shit black, almost / phoenix.
*
You’re not allowed to write
about that anymore, he said
after the poetry reading.
In the bathtub, warm water
wraps my face in cellophane.
I hold my breath and my heart
tightens into brass
knuckles, punches
the clear plastic of my insides.
No more suicide poems.
My lungs grind and hammer
against cellophane
ribs. Stretch, rip.
No more rape poems.
My chest melts when he says it,
burns slowly, as his fingers comb
and tug the wet tangles in my hair
sew a poem into my ear,
needle the title: First Love.
He stitches the lines
into the fissure
of my mouth:
Honey / I’m sorry / for all the times / I mistook lust for love / although…
He answers with a simple No,
which means:
Wait.
Until I can best
pull you apart
in private
ligament by
ligament,
rearrange
your skeleton
then ask:
What’s wrong sweetheart? You took the knife that cut the throats of everything you loved, you
watched the blood guzzle, you stood in the rose petals and still you stayed.
*
When I rush into morning’s blush, hawk-eyed, I perch outside the veranda, wait for two sparrows
to sketch the sky with a rollercoaster pendulum swing that reminds me of us. I clench my tea, lift
sugared peppermint to my lips. I can taste your sweetness when the sky burns scarlet, gold.
I hate to admit it, but—
the nights after fights are
—delicious.
Your kiss, a sharp mint when our limbs tangle and pull, your canines slick with pheromones and
sweat, the darkness pulsing with moans, I love you, tempered against each thrust of the bed.
*
Yet, still—
the leaves
rustle above
the window
where you sleep
chime an oracle,
rattle and maim
the quiet,
scrape the calm
from my skin
like dandelion seed.
*
Thwack, the knife splits the chicken
thigh, peels back the uncircumcised
hood of skin, loosens to a wiggle
the parasitic hip, the wriggling worm
of it, gooey tendon, wet rotation / snap /
the record player contorts a man
into a boyfriend,
a boyfriend into an ex,
an ex into an echo of my rapist
/ snap /
there goes the chicken breast,
flattened ribcage, bones
crushed into pixie dust. Thwack.
A knife butchered neck / throat
fucked on the side of the bed
after he ripped The Dark
Phoenix Saga from my hands.
The record player
drums up a man,
drums up a prison
sentence
when he unzips
his pants,
spreads eagle
his thighs
asks why
don’t you fetch
your little comic book?
Again,
I corpse in the fiction
of a made up gentleman
again, I’m the Dark
Phoenix lost
in another
dreamland again,
am I fire? Yearning
for flesh, talon
I am
the screech
of a record player
scratching a man
into a boyfriend,
a boyfriend into an ex,
an ex into a living question
mark: Sweetheart,
if you could tell me anything,
what would it be?
Maybe / that my body / is smoke / and sizzle / fried / like chicken / every time / I ash / inside /
the deep fryer / ash within / the oil’s curdle / the bone / splitting / of a traumatic memory / ash /
the grease trap / ash / the grease fire / I’d tell you / I’m the only one / with enough power / to
burn /
this motherfucker / to the ground
NOTE: The line “Honey / I’m sorry / for all the times / I mistook lust for love / although…”
borrows and reinterprets/reworks the same line from my poem “First Love” originally published
in Baby Teeth Journal Love Lost Issue
Michael Russell (he/they) is the queer, mad mother monster behind two chapbooks, gallery of heartache (forthcoming from 845 Press) and Grindr Opera (Frog Hollow Press). They are the coauthor of chapbook Split Jawed with Elena Bentley (forthcoming from Collusion Books). They want the best for you. Insta: @michael.russell.poet