“Baby, Hit Me One More Time”
Pondering life and pop
& locking to Tupac, pretending
to blend in with my students
I park the family sedan
and find myself
at a strange juncture:
Does MTV Summer Beach Party still exist?
I mean, can I still catch myself
in the curl breath
of Ananda Lewis?
Can I still forest the land
of tan abdomens and cocaine
What mother doesn’t want
to sign up for the sand slobber,
action coochie call
to Carson Daly,
to feel the gaudy
across her thigh?
Water-logged by the nostalgic
I am the juicy bit
of mid-life crisis
every mother with a StepMaster
forgot could cry.
Who is to say my son would not feel proud
to see his mother
doe along the pier
a slosh of sunset and gin
in her wake,
crisp as a fawn
caught in the faux horizon?
Dawn is a Sound My Son Makes
The llamas from my dream still have
your flesh in their teeth as the sheets
crenellate between you and the sour
haze hammocked behind my knees.
You reach for me &
a relic from last
night’s scene - counting nostrils and
blowholes on Sesame Street - takes
hold of me. What is it about the bawk
bawk that make you happy? The strut,
the moo, the feather spume that turns
your fists to five-part hearts that pulse
in five arcs for a language not ours?
What do you hear in neigh that you did
not in a thousand cordial heys? I can hear
my lesbian Barbie, the mascot for my child
hood lacrosse team., not God exactly, but
the only one who used to speak to me.
Her flamingo pink bikini feathering
my fingers like a rosary – is that why you
communicate in cock-a-doodle-doos? More
than mom, animals have ears built to hear
you? Beakless, I admit, I curve into your wings
another milk stripe across your downy skin
and listen for your first hiss rattle coo to settle in.
About the Author:
Alexa Doran is currently working on her PhD in poetry at FSU. Please visit her website https://aed16e.wixsite.com/alexadoranpoet for a full list of publications and awards.