Poet of the MonthrbdFebruary 04, 2020Karla Lamb, poetry, poet of the month

Karla Lamb: February 2020 Poet of the Month

Poet of the MonthrbdFebruary 04, 2020Karla Lamb, poetry, poet of the month

Incision

I blame/thank the mother who figured
my figure would weigh me
down/ top-heavy at fifteen/ said my body
my choice/ but really
decided for me/ to surgically remove
the pain before my future body bent over
from too much/ said learn from my mistakes/ my
/future body unable to run/jump comfortably/ my future
body would have less choices/ amass unwarranted attention/
less choices in clothing/sizes/ said genetically/ my then-
body predisposed to wide/large hips/breasts
too big for my then/ girl-body/ disproportionate
to my weight/height at the time/ I said fine/ cut
them off/ make me small/ weightless/ comfortable
prevent my inevitable back pain/ reattach both
areolas/ carve my choice in permanent/ scar/ carve
my extra tissue away/ make me small/ fit into/ cute tops/
I thank/blame the surgeon/ said cup size would increase
anyway/ over time/ said B was too small/ measured
me/ assumed my shape/ shaped me with his hands
said gravity would claim her place on my now-body any
way/ I chose to scrap the body of the woman/ in me then/
the woman I would have become anyway/ reduced her
to size/ to handful/ to manageable/ in the future
the mother asks/ how my now-body adjusted/ settled into
new form/ back straight/ alert/ confident?/ secure?/ now

150 Hallock St.
Pittsburgh, PA

It’s hard to think about separating your books from mine. I borrowed The Savage Detectives, Liar’s Club. I think about stealing M Train, The Unbearable Lightness of Being. We used to talk about how DFW pushed Mary Karr out of his moving vehicle, how fucked up that was. Looking up from Slouching towards Bethlehem, you say—

It’s hard to think about peeling off every single magnetic poem caked to the fridge door: another surreal animal, whisper gold canvas queen. Nicky & Nicole’s save-the-date from 2014. A postcard from New Mexico saying Don’t Let Go. Remember how you made shrimp alfredo for my birthday, taught me how to pinch the tail between my thumb & finger, suck in, get all the meat out?

It’s hard to think our upstairs neighbors will get the good parking spot from now on. I’ll miss their blaring arguments, their twins crying. Tom’s thick footsteps trekking sympathy weight up the narrow staircase. Years from now: in the silence between birds, in our different cities, I’ll want to hear the front door slam open & shut at 4 am. I’ll miss the bone-dry smell of the old vent churning, this shitty water pressure.

It’s hard to clean out all the unused corners, scrub the shower, pack the paintings, go through papers, find pictures of your dead ex as bookmarks. We never did get a new lamp. The framed photograph of Malcolm X yours, the portrait of Frida & Trotsky mine. I’ll fold the torn prayer flags from the back porch if you promise to leave the floor spotless, get our deposit back.

Karla Lamb is a multidisciplinary Chicana poet. Her work has appeared in A Women’s Thing Magazine, The Shallow Ends, Coal Hill Review, Vox Populi, Word Riot, Pittsburgh Poetry Review, Voices from the Attic, Always Crashing, & forthcoming in Revista La Peste. Her work has been nominated for the Best of the Net anthology. Lamb is the program manager at City of Asylum, an organization that provides sanctuary to endangered writers. She has edited for After Happy Hour Review, & can usually be found collaborating with various artists & writers in Pittsburgh, PA. (karlalamb.com)

rbd