‘Airportions’ and other poems
By: Isabelle Hoida
the distinctness of life:
the motorboat noises of a distant memory
i was chugging underneath the propeller,
chopped up like the dishes of seaweed,
tumbling around and around in a spin cycle
of wetness. and it feels lonesome
to interact with these individuals.
it seems uncouth.
one tries to figure out
the concuspability of fixations.
i am hungered, fixed, gnawed, i deliver
but the best of my torrent.
i am hungry, loving, desperate to create a vortex
of attention—the hamper that gets filled with
others’ dirty clothes;
perspective, i shout at the tinkling noise of
my urine as it slicks the white bowl. the
yellow fill presents my toxins and i’m
able to make them disappear. i’m
capable of magic, with one lever, all the atrocities
in the world, the kidney’s back alleys, can be saved.
Pooling. The egg’s friendly
stomachical splurge reflects itself twofold, upon a glass table,
upon the reflection panel of no-going-back. A vomit mimicry,
she is reacting to the allergens on her finger pads
the young girl
with her fingers mashing the punctured edible.
She touches the egg’s life, its paragon of reproduction, with infantile ecstasy,
a scientist on the cusp of orgasmic discovery,
an observation moments from becoming a polished fact.
She slides her fingers across the table’s grain.
She opens her mouth. This is egg whites, this is yolks.
This is the place where I came from. This is the place where I was stolen.
Still; The Longing Orbits
(with lethal imagination, it crawls)
Still; That Vertigo Encapsulates
(with flooding touches, it writhes)
Still; The Melancholia Filters
(without safety, without home, it runs)
Still; Stationary; Stiff
The Dewy Absence
Beckons The Soul.