top of page
yellow_pit_2.png

1 poem
by Stephanie Cawley

Stephanie Cawley is a poet in Philadelphia and the author of the books My Heart But Not My Heart (Slope Editions) and Animal Mineral (forthcoming YesYes Books), plus the chapbook A Wilderness (Gazing Grain Press). More at stephaniecawley.com.

The Thing (1982)

​

​

Art could be good and also bad.

​

Hard not to love a monster and a tank-topped hunk.

​

That’s camp, you say, stepping rock to rock.

​

I agree the hot dogs looked more appetizing as pink cartoons.

​

You could desire to cup, gently, a nice ass, not even sexual.

​

Missed connection with hot person wearing mustard hat in out of town deli.

​

I had to feel it in the throat, now, to call it “good.”

​

A movie with no women in it can be about women, flamethrower minor character and all.

​

Stuck in subtext, like honey, meaning fine about it, golden.

​

The monster considers a part as good as a whole.

​

When the doctor cuts the monster open it looks vaginal, can’t tell if that’s just me.

​

Had lost ability to track wink versus critique.

​

You said you prefer girls because they have, on average, cuter butts.

​

It was nice to feel nice, I did keep saying that.

​

I kept making excuses for my sticky hands, which I mostly kept to myself.

​

Understood another film to be quote-un-quote interesting, but kept checking the minutes left.

​

A poem could aspire to say something meaningful and then foam like warm beer.

​

Inside one man is another man, hotter, more jacked.

​

I wanted to see the monster one last time, even lit on fire.

​

I wanted the monster to live out her gross life, be made prom queen, wear a crown.

​

No one stays hot, you say, looking at the hunk’s present day face.

​

The deli sells something called the Three Pig Rambo, open bread stacked with meat.

​

Some metaphors are so obvious they’re not metaphors, just facts in costume.

​

Thinking of aging hunks, I remember the discs of bologna nailed to a wall, called art.

​

It’s warmer than we expected in here, the artist said, hence the smell.

​

If you understood you didn’t need a man for affection, think of what, to one, you might do.

​

Now that I don’t care about anything, I get hotter every day.

​

I prefer both because why not.

​

Unprovoked, the monster lives a very normal human-shaped life.

​

​

​

​

  • Black Facebook Icon
  • Black Twitter Icon
  • Black Instagram Icon
  • YouTube
bottom of page