On Swinging to the Stooges – Olivia Olson

I’ll write a beautiful poem about us fucking. All
afternoon. The hammock winces, waltzes
after some convincing, through the trick humidity.

Muscle the beat back in the speaker, like a coffee filter
cracked and coded with the remains of this morning.
Beat got the blues. I got the bang for you, lady,

raunching into the wettening chorus—more a river
than a woman— to the carpet, pushing the plush down
to the hard foundation, which is such a surprise.

Translators of the afternoon get stumped. The halting
typewriter makes sinister bitches of us all. Lousy
lovers of us all. Okay woah. Sorry, but all the jail

bait birdies, read my lips: makeup is a metaphor.
Nothing’s too good for festering. The bloom’s off
your rose, honey. Withering begins now, always.

Throwing shade on all the brand new blooms while
we rock. It’s your turn to flip the record. The contralto
lavender thunders the taut fabric beneath us, stirs

vibrations. It’s been a while since we let whiskey
scour the buildup, embarrass ourselves. We’re
rusting, move slower. All evening. We’re rusting.

Okay, we should be good. The new side spins, the needle
scratches out the silence. The time between the static
and the crackling. The crackling, then the breaking keys.

Olivia Olson is a librarian working in metro Detroit. Some of her recent work is out or forthcoming in Winter Tangerine Review, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, and Timber Journal. She is also co-edits SiDEKiCK Literary Journal, which aims to publish a diversity of poetic voices.

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