february 2021

Josef Lemoine

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.