Guilliean reads three of her poems; read along with the poems while you’re listening!
Flip the Script
It had to look real. Bruise had to be shaped just so. Lampshade swayed like Newton's law. Equal but opposite. It was the only heavy object within reach. Timed carefully. The neighbors would hear. They would see his car in the driveway. The wound would be temporary, Band-Aid. This house; a prison, An expensive gilded cage.
I'm trying to recall How it felt to have A country home in your arms The scent of your cologne Blinds the fiber of my being A party as the world ends The beat of your heart Unsweetened lemonade On the tongue of my skin I used to excite your molecules False oxygen in your brain Fired by the microwaves of touch Is there a space for me at your table for two I make coffee for you in the A.M. Like you were real Like you're not in my bones Wear not my crown, the one I bought you To hide your gray hairs That I didn't mind as much as you Eighteen months later Love heart like water into the gutter Echoes on the empty McMansions Slinging profanity, vain words Of the love and devotion I used to feel, about us About you, you self ish cunt When all I wanted was you That's all I ever wanted.
The Precarious Position
Walk a perfect circle around me, Quietly observe my happily married peers, some with kids, some not, but never alone. I don't see the start of that world for me ever, and I feel strangely fine. Liberation opened doors for my gender, to choose or not to choose, but sometimes, perhaps only when I breathe, my Catholic guilt suggests I should crash into a twist of fate. I wasn't supposed to end up like Mme. Bovary, her concepts of life guided by books, the trajectory of her existence based on the romance, never living life, merely thrust into it, like the sound of a kick drum. I was supposed to have seen the world by now, a blitzkrieg of light in the form of knowledge. London, Paris, Tokyo, Madrid. Trapped in a snow globe of dust and cactus, Measured as a lengthy self-inflicted bender, weeping in some dark abscess of neon. What does heaven look like to an angel? Is it the same as ours? Is it guided by instinctively knowing? And what is heaven to an angel anyways? Do they need to drive towards that perfection, like the rest of us do, or do they travel there in books, as the rest of us do?
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