POETRYPearl at the Studio Micby Trish HopkinsonWriter of the Month
The maniac screams.
Her lips touch my face.
Her palm presses madly
at the back of my neck,
squeezes my collar and jerks
me in neurotic movement.
She tempers. She fusses.
She tells me no one will love me
the way she tries to do;
she tells me it’s alright to cry.
Cry, baby, she coddles;
she rises. She bends her voice
over and my insides vibrato.
She drags her larynx out
beneath the lights.
Come on, baby, her mouth
wraps lyrics in the hiss
of Southern Comfort
and the sweltering prick
of poppies. She pulls me in
and yanks me from my stance,
both at once. She hurls raucous
and rough like swallowing
grind, like wood heel against grit,
against hurt and fret.
Her rumblings burst out.
Her spit stings my metal.
Her eyes and skin wad and jam.
She’s rocking, cradling my coolness
in her hot, wet hands.
Come on, come on, honey,
cry, cry… baby.
(Originally published in Utah Sings: An Anthology of Contemporary Poetry by the Utah State Poetry Society, 2015.)
Trish Hopkinson has always loved words—in fact, her mother tells everyone she was born with a pen in her hand. Trish is co-founder of a local poetry group, Rock Canyon Poets. She is a project manager by profession and resides in Utah with her handsome husband and their two outstanding children. You can follow her poetry adventures at http://trishhopkinson.com/
with her balding bedsheets,
August’s bitch, strung up on the line
her feet are bleached roots
azalea eyes, blue from the acidic dirt of Panhandle drought
A whole town: armed to the teeth,
arming themselves against my teeth.
She-cat of Bladenboro,
I’m here for your dogs,
your sheep, your sons, your blood.
You know who I am, boys.
your candle burns too brightly
never to find another flame to stoke it:
your kindling is out there.
first of all, let’s talk sweet tea. Yankees joke about the secret being sugar—& it is, partly—but the real secret’s in the baking soda. it takes the bitterness out of the tea & makes the sweet taste sweeter. just like you should be to your husband. neutralize all the bitterness & just be sweet as Southern tea. & don’t squeeze them teabags. you know what I mean, girl.
and the old hatreds
have risen up from under their rocks
where they’ve been hiding
taking a new form
they ooze like stale bile
flowing out of sewers
i can feel your populism from here
in the cool confines of the passenger seat
your window is up too
we both got the a/c blasting, bro
because they sure make america hot these days
caliente or kalinatuh i’d say, much to your chagrin
everywhere i turn
the orange-faced bloviating billionaire
with bad hair and a small penis
tells me that he wants to make america great again
for its dying minority
in his d.c. office cum apartment
three miller lights into it
spit shinning his portrait of reagan for the third time
making the sign of the cross
a chunk of wisconsin cheese in his hand
after a hard day of obstructive legislative work
We caught her
100 Acres from the Woods
wearing white, a cotton dress
with porridge stains, raisins
and honey on her breath,
goose feathers almost disguised
by her long golden locks.
