Francess Archer Dunbar is usually taking the scenic route and running a little late. Read more of her work at saintfrancess.com or send her an email at francessdunbar@gmail.com.︎
01. On Sex
when I think about sex I think about
the plight of the abandoned pigeon,
once as domesticated as the common cell phone
now left to lose toes and beg for crumbs
on the pavement of the outer world.
I cry too when I see one that has accidentally returned
inside. Beating their wings unloved against the high ceiling
of a lonely train station or carnival tent, unwanted
and ignored by their former master,
searching for an exit back
to a freedom of grinding neglect.
when I think about sex I think about
my cell phone vibrating in my pocket,
screen scrolling through me and swiping left
and right and finding each pixel wanting.
dark glass and a slack-jawed expression,
intimate, algorithm scanning each pausing pupil with a
sensual view. This is a lover that knows what I
want, and in the loneliest and most anxious
moments of the night, reaches out her tender
hand and promises the blank dreams of
artificial light.
when I think about sex I think about
words, I think about chatbots and literotica
and the titles above videos,
I think about poetry,
and the reader gasping for breath
under me.
I think about the bare nakedness of the page,
And a band peeking out under your shirt
promising entire
cornucopias of fruit.
︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎
02. On Molasses Books in Brooklyn
In this heat,
I’m damp and happy to be
your friend with a pool.
Frog boys breed all night
and we swim through
the chia-seed pudding
their love-making has
wrought, each egg
a resting reptilian mind.
Above, the two fish girls
that live in the moon
swirl around that
tiny cosmic cereal bowl.
They’ll outgrow it soon,
but tonight their bodies
swirl eel-like in the muck.
It smells like burnt toast
It’s possible I’m
having another aneurysm.
I think I need a new book.
I think I need a new boyfriend.
I’m grateful today
that society has embraced
orange wine.
When I walk home,
little ones in dresses
with long sleeves
watch me pass in disbelief.
Their young fathers
ignore me.
It was supposed to be endless,
this city, but everyone is so familiar.
I don’t know them but
they’ve met me
so many times before.
Along the sidewalk,
frogs ask for kisses.
It’s not yet time
for transfiguration,
whatever the moon phase.
In the corner
someone reads our same book.
We never say a word.
when I think about sex I think about
the plight of the abandoned pigeon,
once as domesticated as the common cell phone
now left to lose toes and beg for crumbs
on the pavement of the outer world.
I cry too when I see one that has accidentally returned
inside. Beating their wings unloved against the high ceiling
of a lonely train station or carnival tent, unwanted
and ignored by their former master,
searching for an exit back
to a freedom of grinding neglect.
when I think about sex I think about
my cell phone vibrating in my pocket,
screen scrolling through me and swiping left
and right and finding each pixel wanting.
dark glass and a slack-jawed expression,
intimate, algorithm scanning each pausing pupil with a
sensual view. This is a lover that knows what I
want, and in the loneliest and most anxious
moments of the night, reaches out her tender
hand and promises the blank dreams of
artificial light.
when I think about sex I think about
words, I think about chatbots and literotica
and the titles above videos,
I think about poetry,
and the reader gasping for breath
under me.
I think about the bare nakedness of the page,
And a band peeking out under your shirt
promising entire
cornucopias of fruit.
︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎
02. On Molasses Books in Brooklyn
In this heat,
I’m damp and happy to be
your friend with a pool.
Frog boys breed all night
and we swim through
the chia-seed pudding
their love-making has
wrought, each egg
a resting reptilian mind.
Above, the two fish girls
that live in the moon
swirl around that
tiny cosmic cereal bowl.
They’ll outgrow it soon,
but tonight their bodies
swirl eel-like in the muck.
It smells like burnt toast
It’s possible I’m
having another aneurysm.
I think I need a new book.
I think I need a new boyfriend.
I’m grateful today
that society has embraced
orange wine.
When I walk home,
little ones in dresses
with long sleeves
watch me pass in disbelief.
Their young fathers
ignore me.
It was supposed to be endless,
this city, but everyone is so familiar.
I don’t know them but
they’ve met me
so many times before.
Along the sidewalk,
frogs ask for kisses.
It’s not yet time
for transfiguration,
whatever the moon phase.
In the corner
someone reads our same book.
We never say a word.
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