A dear friend

was missing two Netflix movies,

she looked everywhere

on the computer table

the television stand

bookshelves

cutting table,

sorted through stacks of

books

magazines

papers

fabric,

finally gave up in despair,

wondering what

the replacement cost would be,

she told me all about it at lunch,

later that day

when she called to tell me

they’d just arrived in the mail,

I couldn’t find the phone.

Baroque Osmosis

I’ve written elsewhere

about sleeping

most nights

with poetry books

and poetry magazines

scattered across my bed,

books I like,

Bukowski mostly

and magazines I like

The New York Quarterly

Askew

Rattle

Beyond Baroque

and so many more,

I sleep with them,

with osmosis dreams,

wistfully hoping

something there

might subconsciously

enter my mind

and inspire me,

but one night

I awoke with a start,

in a cold sweat,

short of breath,

seized by a moment of panic,

and thrashing about

I discovered something

terrifying

lurking under the others -

a self-published book

by a bland and lifeless poet,

and Kurtz said it first,

but I say it here,

my god,

the horror,

the horror.

————

Paul Hellweg has felt his whole life as if he didn’t fit in. Then a few months ago he discovered a new world of kindred spirits in the poetry universe, both online and at readings throughout the Los Angeles area. He’s thrilled to have finally found a place where he fits in just fine, sober or otherwise.

My therapist sits in a modest desk chair and I slide into a black leather recliner. It’s a nouveau version of the therapy couch. Sweat gathers behind my knees, itching and sticking against the leather. This chair is made for swiveling; it’s impossible not to. I try to make it look like a muscle twitch, but eventually we have to talk about it. That’s how she works.

“That’s a great top,” she says toward the end of our session.

“Thanks.” I’m glad she likes it. We look at each other in a friendly way.

She makes a sweeping hand gesture and says, “it’s interesting how you’re just putting the subject of your bush out there.”

“Well, yeah,” I say. “My bush is more than happy to belittle our president. It’s a civic duty.”

She smiles. “It’s interesting that you’re encouraging random strangers to think about your bush. Everyone who walks by you, no matter their gender or orientation or political stance, to some extent, even if only for a second, will think about your vagina.”

I look down at my tank top. I’m not wearing a bra-that would defeat the purpose somehow.

The air conditioner spits cold air right at my nipples, which punctuate my disdain for the president. I think they know they’re being discussed.

“So…does that mean you’re thinking about my vagina?” I ask her.

She laughs. “Well, of course. I’m a person, aren’t I?”

Outside, a car honks, and then another, and another, sounding down the street like dominoes. She’s still looking at me. I cross my hands over my breasts, my shirt, those words.

It’s an obvious thing to do, but I don’t care. Neither of us speak.

I can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t have to do with my vagina. Or my mother. This is bad.

I’ve been silent for too long. She’s sure to think it means something. She’ll probably want to talk about it next week. I’ll wear something different. I’ll never be out of therapy.

The next patient buzzes on the intercom. The monitor pixellates his face into anonymity.

I give her a false rainbow-shaped wave and walk out. In the waiting room, the next patient gets up from an overstuffed love seat. He avoids my face, but notices the sound politics of my bush.

He gives me a salute and thinks, if only for a second, about my vagina as he heads into therapy.

————

Joelle Renstrom lives in Boston, MA, where she “teaches” literature, writing, and communications. Her work has appeared in Carousel, the Allegheny Review, Sycamore Review, the New York Inquirer and other publications you’ve probably never heard of, and a chapbook of her poetry was published by the University of Arkansas Press. Other than reading and writing, she enjoys travelling, chapstick, electronica, the color orange, cheese, cooking, patterns, freaks, and good science fiction. She is currently “working” on a collection of essays.