We lost the rubber of a tire
scouting out a pasture where two horses
melt a little every day
-W.F. Roby
Will, I wither straight
to you, from Atlantic City’s glitz, whatever sin
you live in, clammy hole you’ve dug yourself. If I heard
your wounded hype just right, at the moment you’re haranguing to a tent
of angry, moonshine sipping gypsies on the state
of bullet trains, the M dash, how umbrellas are suspended
in the sky. Will, I sigh. Why, Will Roby, why? If you’ve really
seen a stallion liquefy, I’ll give you each red cent
in my pink purse, each couplet as they holler
from my mouth. Here, love, take that
little lyric puff of smoke, the one
where I go down on Bowie, circa ‘85. I know it’s gauche, but
since you can blow David Bowie in my poem, go on, give
it a try. He’ll be kind to you, my little W, he’ll stripe
silver shadow down the side of your green eyes. After, he’ll treat
you to a coffee, pecan pie— some trash diner down below
14th. Can’t you hear the F train underneath? So can I. Listen,
Will, I’m back, a pretty thief, to steal my poem
from your brink. If you had kept
these lines, they’d end up in that diner’s kitchen sink, where
there’s a baby turtle race, some hot pink heat,
a caterpillar squawking at the moon (who’s slinked
off from her post to grab a drink) and I don’t think
so, I’ll have none of that. What’s this need to make the world
do what it can’t? I’m just like, here’s the earth
we’re dealt, its One Night Only! Technicolor glow, look around
you, sweets, it’s the best prime rib you’ll never eat, your one night
stand on that Greek white sand beach, the moon-
light sparking off her caramel tan—why not just call
it like it is? What’s a little horse sense, struck
between new friends? & once,
you know, on Valentine’s, an ex & I, we brought
a pineapple to bed. We were 19, we thought oh, yes,
how erotic, I don’t know why we thought it, guess we both envisioned
its tart dribble down our flawless, baby chins, how its juice would drench
my dorm room’s flannel sheets—sheer
abandon, how delicious! But, we forgot to buy a knife, back
at the Acme, couldn’t hack inside. & the leaves were tricky
spikes! That fruit kept us at arm’s length, did we even make
love that day? I don’t think
we did. It’s that pineapple that sticks
me in the craw, obtuse & brown. It would never
make a sound. Forget the ex, how half the time
he couldn’t get me off, half dozen nudes
he painted of me, silent, staring, in his New York
City loft, below 14th, oh, way below, my dear, we’re talking
Brooklyn, here. Forget the rendered, faded summer light, orange
on my naked shoulder blades—it makes me yawn.
It’s the fruit we couldn’t crack
that brings it back—his awkward, unrequited love (and unrequited
love can kill you, but he made it through), that’s
the thing, the real, the here & now, that’s my heart-
broke sister out in ‘Frisco, slinging drinks
to pay the bills (she just found out— her lover
& her best friend— in that bullshit city’s shrouded
hipster hills), it’s the way that words
can do their dirty, honest work— look, they whisper, look,
you blinked, you missed it, summer’s done, the light just switched,
it’s fall. Wake up, Will Roby, you might miss it all.
Emily Van Duyne lives in New Jersey with her family. She teaches writing and gender studies at Stockton University, where she was recently tenured and promoted. Her work has appeared widely in journals and magazines, including Harvard Review, Profession: The Online Journal of the Modern Language Association, Literary Hub, the Chronicle of Higher Education, The Rumpus, and many other places. Her book, LOVING SYLVIA PLATH, is forthcoming with W.W. Norton & Co. She is a 2021 Fulbright Fellow in Writing, and represented by Beth Vesel, of the Beth Vesel Literary Agency.
