Mon Guerlain
I once had a thirst for knowledge.
Now I deseed jalapenos for their
immersion in tequila. What is this
flawed obedience. What is this
strange obsequy. I am searching
for my threshold. I am trying not
to confuse a Trojan horse with
pyrrhic victory. I have forgotten
how to hyphenate, how to ventilate.
My twin lung sacks have wilted,
like roses given on the occasion
of I’m sorry, please forgive me,
before the offender strikes again.
If I could just visit Bora Bora.
If I could just find my
signature perfume.
Yesterday, we argued
about which gunshot wounds
are fatal. Seems best, we concluded,
to avoid the major arteries, heart,
and brain. I dream of confluence,
the junction of two rivers, but
my dream is always ruined
by the reality of effluent.
Dogged, you pursue me,
to the point of no return.
Virginia Konchan is the author of The End of Spectacle (Carnegie Mellon, 2018), Anatomical Gift (Noctuary Press, 2017), and two chapbooks, including That Tree is Mine (dancing girl press, 2018). Virginia Konchan’s poetry has appeared in The New Yorker, The New Republic, Boston Review, and elsewhere.