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3 poems
by Marisa Crawford

Marisa Crawford’s writing has recently appeared in Harper’s Bazaar, The Nation, Hyperallergic, WONDER, and elsewhere. She’s the author of the poetry collections Reversible and The Haunted House (Switchback Books), and co-editor, with Megan Milks, of We Are The Baby-Sitters Club: Essays & Artwork from Grown-Up Readers, forthcoming from Chicago Review Press in July 2021.

from DIARY

I'm not trying to wear Nike sneakers around

the neighborhood but they're here, so I'm wearing them.

It's a cool look for a woman of my age.

I'll buy the mid-length black slinky skirt from Zara

& wear it around my apt in winter.

Problem w/o a name.

I hate myself I hate communication.

I'll put my phone in the kitchen cabinet like J

would, go out all night kissing 21-yo girls

w black bobs & burgeoning interests in Marxist

economics while I'm at home crying.

I'm a Gemini I'm splitting.

Twin girls / twin crystal ball emojis.

E was in the woods I was in my new apartment.

I was wearing Aimee’s Betsey Johnson dress, reading Betty Friedan.

That I would be good even if I got the thumbs down.

I'm wearing my FUPA like this

cause it's part of my outfit

& also I'm wearing six necklaces.

I'm floating down the stairs.

 

Emily Dickinson poem

flanked by ads for Spanx

and Neutrogena, tours of

haunted Salem homes.

Layering on the nonexistent lipstick

like I'm going to my first bat mitzvah

 

Unicorn nail decal

Body dysmorphia like please.

My tits sag but these

aren't my tits.

 

Me in black and white.

Your boyfriend's four fingers.

Walking backwards

in a field of green grass, 1993.

J texts me a picture of a baby goose we rescued from a river.

I buy the makeup the guy in the store tells me he wears every day. It's pink & shiny.

Run into Sharon at Park and 22nd

Run into Sharon in the 8th grade hallway

Wake up in the morning. I have that feeling

like if aliens landed on the planet they would think that capitalism was a horror movie.

Gently used Louboutins

Fainted in the elevator while carrying a dozen eggs, broke them all

Said “hi baby” to my copy of Lunch Poems by Frank O’Hara

Walking around H&M with a frown on my face like a poster girl for the fact that money can't buy happiness.

A utopia where all the coders are pretty girls with vocal fry

My therapist said “whoomp there it is” about loneliness.

Standing on the street corner, waiting for my life to change

Look up at the sky / tendrils of clouds

JK look back down