APOLOGY: A SEMI-GHAZAL
It’s not winter anymore, boy,
summer sweats out the truth.
Summer is not a pop song, no,
heat is the cold unvarnished truth.
I don’t eat key lime pie because of you.
Matthew, I am telling the truth.
Don’t fall in lust on psych wards.
Like black and white, this is oedipal truth.
I feel so Zionist right now. The
Holy Land, the Bible. Telling the truth?
Miss Behlor Bernice, enjoy the heat.
Apologize without desire. You know
SONG OF SONGS
My left knee aches, stiffens, numbs up
in the grip of summer storms.
I remember the Charles River,
you shirtless, unbuttoning me --
the devil you’ll always be.
At a New York City kiosk, I
glance at a trashy celebrity mag.
Watch the editors gloat
over 135 gluttonous pounds.
I write by the East River.
I’m housed by a place
that’ll never be a home.
I kiss fantasy lips,
soaking in your multitudes
of virtues and vices,
vices and virtues.
Like Whitman and Hughes,
my soul is deep, like rivers.
Behlor Santi has recently published fiction and poetry at Eunoia Review and The Birds We Piled Loosely. She curently lives on an island between Manhattan, The Bronx, and Queens. Contact her at firstname.lastname@example.org.