“Lust Drags You Down to Hell”

July 2017 | poetry

                                  Highway billboard between Columbia and Kingdom City, Missouri

 
1.
“Hell” is on fire, flames throbbing, hotter
than the 98-degree day vibrating outside
my windshield. I’m not convinced the sign
is true. I’m one of the lost.

2.
Along an extravagant street in another country
I prowled the blue-lit windows, starved
as a stray cat licking its whiskers.
Each miniature world was illuminated
by its own bright sun, a magical point of light
that dazzled off facets, ricocheted from shaped links
and loops and ropes and polished chains
that I supposed would hold me so gorgeously
I wouldn’t try to slip through a carelessly open door.
I lusted after such opulence. Will that lust
drag me down to hell shimmering
like a pagan Christmas tree?

3.
Consider this harsh conviction in the context
of fidelity, a measured approach based on facts:
after whom one is lusting should matter.
Should a little debauched fun between friends
have such disquieting consequences?
Where is it written that lust has to end
after vows are said, children born,
a big fat mortgage added to the mix?

4.
I am the sort of woman who worries
about fitting in, being invited to bridge club
and to play tennis. The billboard is comforting.
Imagine a place where entertainments like lust
are the thread knitting everyone together.

5.
Have you been in hell? Tortured?
Hopeless? Eyes red and swelled
with tears that will not cease? Your heart
hammering? Have you lain down
with dread, awakened with it clinging
to your pillow? Tangled in your hair?

6.
There have been times when,
having indulged satisfactorily,
I considered the last two amber inches
in an exceptional bottle of single malt,
and didn’t stop myself from pouring
the last dram into my glass.
I’ve indulged in daylight sensuality,
celebrated its languid lustiness,
then napped late into the afternoon,
disinterested in further exertion.

7.
I envy sanctimonious do-gooders,
one brilliant success after another.
I delighted in my bad decisions,
did the ‘walk of shame.’ I still want
to dress up and strut around
with my head high, neckline low,
hoping some guy—much younger than me—
will eye me lustfully, providing an opportunity
to be dragged down to hell one more time.

Nancy Pritchard

Nancy Pritchard is a life-long St. Louisan. Her poems have appeared in a number of journals, including Natural Bridge, December, The Cape Rock, Mankato Poetry Review, PMS (PoemMemoirStory), Melic Review, Poetry Southeast, Fugue, and two collections of Harvest: Jewish Writing in St. Louis. She received an MFA at University of Missouri-St. Louis. She won the 2005 and 2006 Wednesday Club Poetry Contests (T.S. Elliot only won once) and the Arts in Transit award. She has taught poetry to middle school students in the St. Louis Public Schools for Springboard to Learning(www.springboardstl.org) since 2006. She is an avid traveler, athlete, and grandmother of 12. Although she is obsessed with reading the obits (especially in the New York Times) she hopes hers is still a long way off.

James Dean’s Pants

July 2017 | poetry

I always wanted to wear the pants

James Dean wore, and Rebel

taught me he was all wick and no wax—

ghost-riding his way off the bluffs—

because you know that he didn’t

make it out of that car wreck,

not really, not in the cold, rehearsed

way his total soc counterpart did,

when he cowered before the onslaught

of fragrant light beams or

fictions, projections on canvas,

but never the real fear, real

darkness, no. Instead: two tons

of steel clasping him like a baby

bird in a broken nest. That day,

pretending to fly off the cliffs,

he gripped tight the wheel—

white knuckles, greased hair,

creased brow and grimace

grown around the stubby butt

of a cigarette—he gripped tight

and slammed the gas as though

the treads could peel back the future,

the Porsche 550 and 49 Mercury,

the lot and US Route 466

playing tug of war like two groups

of children unlikely to ever let

the sun go down. And James,

having seen the future and the past,

bit down hard on the smoldering

tobacco and shut his eyes, because

in that moment he was unsure if

he was about to die, or push through;

and the potential was in the engine,

potential in the pedal, potential in his feet,

in the rawhide stink of leather, in the smoke

and heat of gasoline, in the bristles

of his comb; and now that he no

longer knew which car he was in,

he flinched, and death caressed him

with metallic fingers; and the sun setting

across the desert flats flickered over

the crumpled flesh and steel, and

the bystanders squealed and cried

with excitement, and the ghost of

James Dean walked around the car

and wondered if he were the dream,

or his body. He looked down and thought

stop pretending. Always the actor, always

the hardness of perfection, of dying young

enough to have been everything and nothing

at all—broken bones, crumpled steel,

oil strewn across asphalt and dust, salty

tears, baking sun, acrid smoke, and on

the wind tossed side of perfection,

his cool hair fluttering, timeless.

Noah Leventhal

Noah Leventhal is a gumshoe literary detective. He recently graduated from St. John’s College -Santa Fe, New Mexico where he managed to avoid nasty juniper allergies for three out of his four years. He enjoys dissolving dream into reality, even when he is talking or eating food with his fingers.

Lucid Lucy Lululy

July 2017 | poetry

She had plugged

The holes atop

Her head with hair

To keep the brains

From knowing there

Was more to life

Than dark and matted skull.

But if she’d once

Considered the cold

Bare fish tail strands

A-dangling exposed

To brushes, combs,

Hot water, wind,

Men’s clutch, she’d

Maybe not have shrieked

When all the hairs

Sunk down to sub-

Skull, crowded round

Her thoughts, coiled

Tight – for warmth –

And lit a fire; set in.

The smoke, an alabaster

Hue – burnt bone?

That smoggy ouster –

Shrouded baldened

Skin, and left

An airborne trail

Like bread crumbs

For the damned

Behind her head

Where all she went then on.

Rebecca White

Rebecca White is a journalist based in New York City. She is a frequent contributor to The New York Times. Her poetry is as of yet unpublished. Rebecca’s poems reflect both her personal experiences and the experiences of those who have shared their stories with her. Much of her work focuses on protest, pain, and power.