1 poem

by Faye Chevalier

Faye Chevalier is a Philadelphia-based poet and essayist. She is the author of the chapbook future.txt (Empty Set Press 2018) and her work has been featured in The Wanderer, Peach Mag, Witch Craft Magazine, the tiny, and elsewhere. Some of her awards and recognitions include being the first poet ever to have work published in a cyberpunk tabletop rpg podcast (Neoscum 2018) and a Pushcart nomination. Find her on Twitter where she cries about cyborgs, vampires, and having a body at @bratcore.

This poem was longlisted for the 2019 Peach Gold in Poetry with guest judge Dorothea Lasky.

the moon won't save you

 

after "Psychotherapy" by sam sax

“the cozy afterglow of a séance          gone terribly

 

 

          wrong”-ness of a          body, 

the peeling of my skin          as a solid figurine

          ; i write a poem,

 

 

call it “there is literally no difference between

 

 

          my body &          tinder[dot]com,”

 

 

have the character of          care

 

 

          bespeak a          withering, a molding

           

 

of crass kisses,          & favored hurt to help

 

 

          myself heal,

 

 

& yet again i          fail to capture-capture

 

 

          desire syllabically;

 

 

such a travesty, proxy-bespeaking          in

 

 

          even sets;

 

 

that one shade of “symmetry          will not save

 

 

          me

 

 

” that so belights          you 

 

 

when you refuse to meet my

 

 

          gaze-or-look tho

 

 

“i refuse my          curation too

 

 

          , so...” & “pleasure will not save

 

 

me” are probs          my favorite sorts of

 

 

          bloods to have          ; so live too dark now, all

 

 

fake          noise now,

 

 

          the moon will          not

 

 

save me the rain will not

 

 

          save me,          save

 

 

a thin shill          of skin-silt,

 

 

          for what i lock          up or

 

 

down does not          live long enough to

 

 

          be the prophetic          thin thing

 

 

Sax holds as          worth              

 

 

          praising,          worth

 

 

phrasing          still