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