Take Me out Drowning
BY Sara Lier
I’ll put on a wavy old record
and walk in with my hips swaying.
This city isn’t big enough
for all the things I want,
but the ocean—that can swallow me
like the last of a drink, coax in
its Billie Holiday voice to let it
do all the breathing.
When you take me out drowning
I will wear a red dress.
My hair will lift and swirl underwater
like sugar dissolving in tea.
The ocean will serenade us
about heartache, bad men, Manhattan,
its own vast moonlit blues.
It’ll roll us in its mouth.
And when I’ve had too much brine
and become sentimental,
you and it will both say
shh to me.
Astroland
I am the last place left.
I am harder than when you tasted me,
and I have spent more time with the sea.
I am brine-laced and bitter, burn going down.
I am harder than when you tasted me;
that is to be expected.
I am brine-laced and bitter burn. Going down
into my ratty underground, remember
that. Is it to be expected—
the erosion, tides like pantylines?
In my ratty underground, remember
not all of me but what you loved best:
the erosion, tides like pantylines.
I am not metrical, an easy sell. Sweet talk
not all of me but what you loved best.
I will earthquake off the rest.
I am not metrical. An easy sell: sweet talk
my moles and hair growth, how the palmlines have changed.
I will earthquake off the rest.
I will burn down this pasteboard body. Still, you will come back.
My moles and hair grow, how the palmlines have changed
as I have spent more time with the sea.
I will burn down. This pasteboard body still. You will come back.
I am the last place left.
Sara Lier is a student currently living in New Jersey. Her poetry has recently appeared in Inkwell Journal, The Sow's Ear Poetry Review, Conte, So to Speak, and Cloudbank.