Josef Lemoine
February 2021

Josef Lemoine is a Filipino-American writer living in Southern California with his wife, son, and daughter. In a past life, he was part of the 2010 and 2011 CSULB Slam Poetry Teams. He and his teammates were Region 15 Champions who competed in the 2010 College Unions Poetry Slam Invitational in Boston. His poetry, nonfiction, and fiction can be found online.
BROTHER
On the morning you left home something moth-like shivered
from my ribs and tattooed your name with invisible
ink in alleys, halls, on fire escape rails. With Cracker Jack
glasses I could read your signature on a frosted
flake and it always led back to that fifth-story
rooftop where you reached toward planes with yardstick
fingers and made them vanish in your fist. I thought
nothing of you baring your neck to battleship
storm clouds and daring the lightning to snipe
from their hulls for I imagined Sirens
sewing shut their throats for you and cemeteries
singing the moment you skipped by
about the time you freed all the carnival goldfish,
tore open the seams of your popcorn-filled
vest, how jets reappeared
when you waved to me.
WOMAN
Woman, I told you I sweat ‘cause I’ve got
lava running through my veins while
the others have cherry Kool-Aid.
I told you the grease that slicks
my nose and cheekbones makes
me smoother and sweeter
than melted chocolate.
I told you I slouch like a chimp
‘cause this sequoia couldn’t see
your daisy without bending
its trunk through the clouds.
My bony elbows
are ball-peen hammers
my jagged teeth
have ripped the throats of jaguars
and my hairline recedes
because I asked it to.
I’ve told you my Adam’s apple sticks
out on a branch and you can play
my ribs like a xylophone ‘cause I am Eden––
the garden and the snake. Remember
those woods between my thighs?
And we giggle and toy with the rainbow
wax paper that crinkles between us
until you reach for the corners to yank
it away and see all I’ve yet to tell you
that beneath the folded arms
and bushy eyebrows
I am a busted toilet at the racetrack.
I am a thirteen-car pile-up on a moonless
night with a baby bleeding
in a Volkswagon
and I am a cosmic cannonball
of fire and ice colliding with Times
Square at rush hour.
And I said what I said
‘cause I’ve got chicken wings
flapping under my shoulder
blades and yellow marbles
bouncing in my ball bag
and I don’t know that I could watch
you go
for inside my chest is a saber-tooth
tabby clawing at my pores, howling
like a ghost, dreaming nothing
more than to taste your breath
but he’ll dance circles on your lap
and slobber on your chin, his butt
wagging across your face in tick-tocks
and I’ve smacked him and kicked him
and whooped him and prodded him
but around you, I can’t get him to sit
so every evening before I step
through your door I douse him
with Nyquil, drown him in Scotch
and make him watch YouTube till
he turns into stone
then my veins freeze over and my tear
ducts swell shut until I can watch
you smile without flinching
until I can press against you
without turning to slush.
And you say I don’t see you
you say I don’t hear you
but, Woman, when you blink
your lashes still sing like a cello
when you walk the stars rumba
to the congas of your hips
and when you whisper I hear the war
cries of empresses and queens with fists
in their spread-eagle hearts
and I leave your side nightly, my bones
trembling from keeping it in. I return
to my studio to drop to my knees
and slice open my belly
just to breathe.
And you’re right: goats will turn
to doves before you see me cry
but in each of my words, if you hold
them to the light, you’ll find
them cut from the clearest
crystal and filling each one
are my orphaned
tears.