Jessica Chrastil


again we smuggle this lukewet cheesecloth.
square: four fine windows, fine whip smart views. let. again. again, bright youth! so much marzipan. a girdled sister in lemon juice laughs at this. Oh

lemon juice. true. yes, often upset. carrying one three note song, a lukewarm wedding, the pale cousin. so much marzipan. honey, frozen chickens thawed refreeze. the skinned chicken thighs and breasts, thaws and sweats. oh my, yellow.

an alarmingly expensive spice.

i say,
how appropriate to name a spice for her. one yellow-orange egg,
in Greece, fried flip sides in our coarsest white salt. in ink he sees soft bodies and in ink he sees soft bodies. in ink he sees soft bodies, soft bottles of fruit juice, bath temp. underneath ink,
so often paper.

so much marzipan! two funerals, six hours stationed. flat clay boats of injured loggers. four varieties of french hazelnut, audobon nuthazel. bend twist, bend twist. one stork white finger to one stork white toe. two fin- gers, two toes. today’s excitable torsos. slim to no persons here. a loss. lack luster. occa- sional books of confidant matches. protect our bars, men, our jars, pickled gizzards.

we, us, the texture of pickled gizzard. so many girls do their make up on the subway. Lina: I’m a girl who does her make-up on the subway. Note: in the effort to keep our sidewalks near to each other they did have other things to say, re: color, sportif, style.




fine flea powder. another honest purchase for the sheer and impenetrable. sizable shift. how it feels to be dust. gender sprawls neatly over paper. excessively needy. we gain assertion on stage. tasting sweetly your onion breath. tasting gaping holes in boiled bagels. parcels of perfect peas break and scatter, too frozen to pick up.

observe the shelf life of lipids, the six arms of Yaz, how it feels to be dust. green peas do pop indulgently. we are a split second self. smell of aisle is often stronger than smell of row. pauper rows merge. make us great rivers.

of course the props fare well as props. hard grains of sand move casually into something bigger. Yaz returns from the past. liquid ease. slave posing as a queen posing as peasant. so easily slipping between fresh and cooked. we have never owned a pot. wisely cover her in powder. a silent gold queen curbs a faux gold kingdom. bored with dust,

we move quickly to sugar, to salt, to peas that are small but cannot be misread as invisible. the cowboy dances gaily in prison. his prison an empty studio. our respect for bandits has been lost. we’ve lost lip gloss in holsters.

Yaz rises as chief. dressed in fuchsia. spring has been her color. we are slaves to fall. young yaz stuck and smitten with flawed reflections. an unseasonably blue lake. children painted tan. dressed in colors of her skin tone. shirt the flush color of royal palms. in america we are corn made into meal. savvy and submissive. we are high raised bread. silken polenta. i chew. my breasts shake. the turn

from objects to animals. we desire skin of iced eski- mo pie. our penalty. money spent on heat and subtle taste of someone else. she unlocks liquid into eggs. one small needle makes one small hole.

we have been taught the skin through powder. we will fix it with the mop. nothing too wet to clean. appropriate nails of burgundy to slate grey. apples have bellies and names. we coddle our ribs. wrapped in colored ribbons. in nights Yaz bears babies with upholstered lips.





The iconic style of the young Andre Agassi has been a great inspiration to many