Jessica Abughattas

The Blood Move

My heart has grown tired and bored about this party

and is thinking a little about late night Chinese,

a cigarette, and calling you

to hear the dial go and go. 

And although it knows all of this is bad for its health,

my heart is tired of role models, wants to let loose for you

but not around this crowd of do-gooders. 

The heart is not yoga, 

and especially does not want to hear about Eckhart Tolle again. 

The heart isn't interested in a Ted Talk about vulnerability. 

The heart is the least vulnerable thing. 

The heart does what it wants and oh, it pities, how it pities.

The heart is the passenger, the driver, 

has gum, water bottles and plastic puke bags 

in case you get sick. 

Taco Bell, the heart regrets to inform you, has closed. 

You will have to find some other way to soothe yourself. 

Squeeze and relax your chamber muscles all you want.

I'm in charge, says my daddy dom heart.

And in the event you pick up,

the heart is mostly listening.

Happy Birthday You Delicious Fuck

Before my life with you, I had my life without you, my life before
the revolting plastic bag of live cultures you say is “immunity building.”
Feral and stinging you bend me over the dining table. Soon.
Soon, our friends will arrive.
I wish them all the kind of romance that has love letters.
Last year, you didn’t hang out with me much at your birthday party.
However, you did make fuck me eyes at me
from across the backyard, and now I live in your house.
You chop the Thai chilis into spicy dust.
You kiss my foot when it hangs off the bed.
My throat is your area of specialty.
We like to fight in parking structures.
I am made to forgive you: for liking hiking, being from Chicago.
The radical cold. Great pleasure and great pain.
I do, but sometimes recall times I did not love you.
Our last fight was about environmental activism.
You’re more into the free and I’m more into the love.
It’s polite to say excuse me, but I like to shove past the world.
We know love doesn’t end where another begins.
I want to be with a woman you’ve been with,
to know you even in that way.
And when I find myself crying behind the wheel,
afraid I’m repeating my mother’s life.
And when my mind circles like a fly
and I lie awake wounding myself
with words no one dares to utter.
How are you certain of me? Your need is intimidating.
Darling, I’m working on myself.
I won’t hold you hostage in a love poem.
I won’t spare you the interpretation of my gaze.
I’ll stay a stranger in some way. I’ll find a way.