DIARY ENTRY #22: VOWS
I’m trying to be my own father with a shotgun. But I have a limit. I’ve been holding
too many hands under the table at McDonald’s. They are taking
all my air. I know we won’t reproduce, but I want to believe in a miracle
child—my niece, tear in the placenta, and still here. What is it to be
so attracted to someone that you want to create a collection?
Will they be brown, like me? Will they run barefoot on the kitchen floor
into my arms, to my breasts? I won’t turn from their mouths. What if
I get sick again? I am chemical in a way. My vertebrae
can’t recall the point of climax. When my lover said
Babe, that was a beautiful fucking church, I dropped a cereal box.
I’m trying to remember why I’m here—
the house with the gables and brick. I am a sinner
with feelings. I am the father. A death
brings people closer together.
RE-EDUCATION
I listen to podcasts to learn about feminism,
watch porn to make sure I’m doing it right.
I dance on the bar because Coyote Ugly,
because these shoes, this drink.
I’m almost 30.
And I still think Bloody Mary is
a game with a mirror. Sometimes
she appears at 2AM. Sometimes she’s
in the toilet, piss reflection before the flush.
There is a truth in this magic—
the time I took Plan B, then
the other time I took Plan B. I bled
for two months. There could’ve been
a mother in me. I told no one,
except the man at Tacos Lupita
who asked what I wanted in my burrito
and I think I said baby. I think I
spun around three times and whispered a name.
And there was no floor
when I fell, when a queen
flew from my womb. There was glass
and napkins, and the doctor
saying, Wake up. Wake up.
MODERN ELEGY
I want to hold the hand inside you.
I want to take a breath that's true.
- Mazzy Star, "Fade into You"
I’ve been having that dream again.
The one where I make a fortune selling my used underwear.
But that’s not why I’m thinking of you.
I remember when we sat at the cafe on 8th,
I said Those fire escapes are really pretty, and
it felt wrong to romanticize a rescue,
as you looked at me, said My beautiful mess,
what am I going to do with you?
The last time I cried to your picture
was the anniversary of my grandmother’s death.
It was about her and you, and how
all the things I could touch would disappear,
like your hand or dirty boxers on the floor,
or the liver spots on her arms, the space
of her missing tooth.
I’ve been having that dream again.
The one where I make a fortune selling my used underwear,
and I buy her a tombstone.
Maybe she loved someone like you once,
someone who could make her feel good
then like shit again. Maybe
she escaped from the side of his house,
no steps, just jumped.
Diannely Antigua is a Dominican American poet and educator, born and raised in Massachusetts. She received her B.A. in English from the University of Massachusetts Lowell where she won the Jack Kerouac Creative Writing Scholarship. She is currently an MFA candidate at New York University and an Associate Poetry Editor for BOAAT. A Pushcart Prize nominee, winner of the Bodega Poetry Contest, and Community of Writers Fellow, her work appears or is forthcoming in Bloodroot Magazine, Day One, Vinyl, Rust + Moth, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. She lives in Brooklyn.