Alexa Smith

Blush

For Grace Stevens Phillips

“You know both colors, Red and
Pink. They are together somehow.
But what do you do with this
overlap? Do you only see the Red
when you look at Pink ? Have you
let memory Red become your lens?
How do you know if you are in
love? Discuss.”

—

Maybe it’s like porn rock sez red

like tipper gore 

“I know it when I see it”

That wasn’t 

tipper that was 

potter sez pink

the justice 

Oh

well you knew

what I meant 

Maybe sez pink but

then there’s 

like the facebook 

dress perception

meme exploding 

head emojis 

everywhere gold 

and blue unraveling 

the fabric of reality 

i felt the contrast 

shift like a radio inside

my eye and looked 

at science to feel

better like this study 

abstract saying color

-normal observers vary 

widely in their color 

precepts i heard it 

on a podcast they sez

I know sez red

I heard the same one 

a friend sez rubbing your eyes 

is the same thing as rubbing your brain

i know sez 

pink i was also 

at that party

Oh

We can agree 

on who i am

sez pink

w/o ever knowing 

like we’re just pointing 

at a wall and calling it 

the same thing

Mm

have you tried soft 

focus? asks red

I tried it and it turned me

on or into you a kind 

of weeping across 

paper it felt 

good

you should 

try it

i dunno sez

pink i’m scared of

losing myself i 

never liked hard 

drugs for that 

reason i don’t 

want to damage

the membrane yknow 

rub too hard 

and you just transfer  

onto everyone 

in the wash 

Yeah sez 

red I know

I was there too

i mean that’s not 

love right 

that’s just 

chapstick 

It was hot

that’s why it left a mark

You’re doing that 

thing again 

making it 

about you 

just trying 

to relate

it’s how I work

I told you that 

before

sometimes i tell 

a story and I can’t 

remember which one

of us it happened to — 

it’s embarrassing 

i don’t like showing 

up on someone 

else’s face 

I don’t have that problem

with anyone else

ugh

Good Use

— 

“SHE DID ALL THAT SHE COULD”

— Epitaph for Mary Harkness, The Woodlands, 1917

— 

step out to see

which one I am

today:

the baby or 

the stroller

everyone’s turning

with the light, punks talk 

in knots, bike 

kneads a walk, arms

slung to merge across

the dead the bench

is named for

blankets rub

the grass, bear

the weight of

pairs sweating

out a memory

bottles drained

crushed and knit

into workwear 

flats: a layer to absorb

condensation

in the toe bed

here I am, a callus

sharpened to

and by

a point

at the gate       I start a loop

do you like being used

asks the man

I’m riding in my memory

it’s a question, but

could be he phrased it

as command: you like

being used and i buck

against this, stop

short and cry

like a kid who lost

their footing, so

we stop and talk

then live more life

he liked when I scratched

his long, pale belly

now we text every few months

about medieval paintings:

another for the ‘never

seen a woman or a baby’ club

he writes of a mother (maybe virgin)

cradling a child, a small globe

signifying her breast exposed

where if I touched on me I’d find

my collarbone, the ‘baby’ eyeing

his meal warily with the head

of an old man, the torso of

a young one

he tells me his wife says they never

used babies to model Christ

because he was meant to be born

complete, fully 

baked, well

done

at the time, I took

his meaning use

as negation of care:

a hiccup of

confusion, then,

when both are present 

in our movements,

a friction that makes 

moving possible

I pass a grave called GLASS               another called MY DARLING            another with my name

all still

walking with me

in relation

some relatives are loud

and want to write the poem 

for me: I AM MY BELOVEDS           

AND / the stones yell                          MY SOUL WALKS                     BESIDE YOU EVERY DAY

YOU see me

and interrupt me

as usual

you merge with us

but now it is a memory

moon’s up

WELL DONE, LENORE

says Lenore’s stone

to her body, eaten or

burned years ago, well 

done to an idea of Lenore 

I carry now back to 

the park, a baby 

memory doing 

well I show you 

in my hands

daffodils         runners lap me 

how are we ever moved

if not by our function

to each other?

WIFE 

OF      

SON 

OF

put 

to       

put me 

to

people call me 

tug their light

I decide 

not to answer

and keep walking

with you until dinner