Poetry: Selections From Danielle Altman

Thirst Traps for My Inner Child

 

My astrologer told me my inner child was hungry 

To imagine her sitting across from me 

to feed her what she needs so I

 

Closed my eyes 

Saw myself at twenty

A scarecrow in a hoodie at a house party

So, so skinny. A dim room

A bottle of vodka clenched between her knees

Avoiding cameras and mirrors 

And boys she didn’t want to sleep with 

 

At the sight of her my tits got heavy

As though full of milk

 

I interrupted the visualization to ask:

Is it normal to get off 

To pics of oneself?

Cause I do that 

But only after I put them on the internet 

 

Ugh, my astrologer said

You’re such a Taurus

Pretend I’m not here 

Focus

 

So I 

Closed my eyes 

Waved twenty-year-old me over  

Didn’t protest 

When she perched on my knee

Unbuttoned my top 

Suckled and latched

 

Her hot mouth 

Rhythmically sucking 

Until warm milk shot out

Spilling down her chin and throat

Wetting the neck of her sweatshirt

As she giggled and gagged

 

This! This is what it must feel like to be a dick ejaculating!

Joy for both of us

She drained me fast

Needy as all girls   

Full of hunger and hurt 

 

When she was done 

She kissed me

Sweet and grassy 

I kissed her back

 

Ashamed of my body at twenty

Forty-five now 

I can’t get enough of it

The taste 

Of my own milk

 

 

 

Like Types

 

Like like

Like me back like

Jarred by an incoming call from my doctor accidental like

I feel sorry for you like

I feel sorry for me like

Your horny lesbian clown novel sounds cool like

I wish I had your life like

I love your poems and I’m genuinely drawn to everything you post even if it’s a pic of a gaping skate wound or your gnarly cat like

I wish we were friends in real life like

I want to fuck you like

I want to fuck you and your rotating cast of girlfriends like

I support your sobriety even though you’re a stranger like 

I support your sobriety because we’re kind of still friends and you used to destroy my life like 

I’m grateful for free self-help advice about codependency like 

You’re a punk too like 

I’m also a fan of Mary Gaitskill like

I love you like

I love us like

I love us so much I should put my phone down like

But I don’t

Like 

 

 

 

Chronic Condition (April 2020)

 

“They’re making us responsible for their disaster,”

I say, handing Tom two wet dishes

“No one predicted it better than Jameson

It’s all we’ve known. Fucking late capitalism.”

He holds up a cloth. “If we run out, these will work as diapers.”

“Diapers are easy. What’ll we do about ventilators?”

 

I can’t stop reading about ventilators

And studying statistical models of future disaster

In between, I change diapers

Wash my hands and stack dishes

Read Postmodernism, or, the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism

When I sleep, I dream of the author, Fredric Jameson.

 

I wish I could FaceTime Fredric Jameson

Discuss the cultural logic of lacking ventilators

“It’s easier to imagine the end of the world than the end of capitalism,”

Said our prophet of manmade disaster

I’d hang up to do dishes

Count toilet paper rolls and diapers.

 

I fill the tub, take off Lucy’s diaper

She squeals at bubbles and splashes my Jameson

His words swell. Lucy pours me a drink of bathwater tea

Faking a sip, I inhale accidentally. Think of ventilators

My choking, her laughter. The inevitable disaster

How do I talk to a baby about capitalism?

 

I wrap Lucy in a towel. Tell her a story about capitalism:

An orange man in a white house wearing makeup and diapers

Leaks pee while gleefully exacerbating disaster

On a capitol hill, his friends meet for burgers and shots of Jameson

To fix elections and markets for ventilators 

An invisible hand sweeps the floor and clears their dishes.

 

A Greek guy I once lived with used to smash dishes

At parties we hosted for students of capitalism

His dad was a doctor for the Olympic team. He probably has access to black-market ventilators.

I message him on Instagram. Check Walmart.com for diapers.

Lucy’s asleep. I pick up my Jameson

Diluted with bathwater. Forewarning disaster.

 

It’s so real, in my hands, old books and chipped dishes. The sweetness and roughness of diapers.

But I practice capitalism. Defer responsibility, lack imagination. Buy more Jameson.

Still, in my lap, an image: A baby, no ventilator. Holding air in her hands, the lungs a disaster.

 

 

 

 

 

Danielle Altman’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Dream Boy Book Club, Literally Stories, The Afterpast Review, Collidescope, Kelp Journal’s The Wave, WREATH, Metachrosis, Blank, and Write or Die. You can find her on Instagram @end_of_los_angeles.