beloved, thin as smoke and, and: Blue Yodel No. 1, and: Vanitas

beloved, thin as smoke and, and: Blue Yodel No. 1, and: Vanitas Eleanor Stanford (bio) beloved, thin as smoke and glamorous you slipped intothe scrubland ofmy feral hairbeloved I built you fromblack bile and Dylan lyricsfrom skeins ofgossip about end-times and the Humean non-self beloved I sent youby mail a tin ofsugared ginger a silkthong I masturbated inbeloved I gave youa childhood ina far-off city by thesea a feminine soulbeloved have younoticed that all the seasonshappen at once nowthe cherry blossomsgoing bananas inNovember my owngirlhood catchingfire again and again Igave you the droppedstitch of early traumaand a nervous breakdownat twenty-three when [End Page 89] you saw God gave you Ceres fora mother moping in her sky-blue sari for your Junereturn I built youto make me kneel andtake you in my mouthbeloved after daysof silence I saidI miss you I remembered yourolling weed andtobacco talking aboutthe Critique of PureReason your elegantfingers your brilliantlegerdemain my shoeswet from the muddyfield where I keptwaiting for flame Blue Yodel No. 1 The beloved leaves for Montreal. Brief Edenicsummer. Briefer fall. The beloved won’t turn onthe light, his face thinning into shadow. Sadnesseating holes in the cuffs of his sweater. Says maybehe’ll become a monk, but one who still lets yougive him blow jobs, still lick the dusky flowerof his asshole until he comes. The beloved wants youto take other lovers. Tell him their agesand what they do to you but nottheir names. The beloved says he’ll write youan essay on the mind-body problem. Says he doesn’tget jealous. The beloved puts onred lipstick silver earrings goes drinkingat Vices & Versa with Silvano or Maya gets manicures [End Page 90] with Claire. Lover, you are not allowedto be jealous either. Instead comb the knots from your wet hair. Strainspaghetti for the children, drink a single whiskyat the El Bar, close your eyes when the band plays TogetherAgain. The beloved doesn’t believein language anymore aspires to be a star cactus or the snow-dusted habitof the Carmelite shoveling after a storm.The beloved says he used to write long love letters butno long love letters for you, lover. Instead blank sheets,an empty bed. Your ten-year-old waltzing you around the living room whilehis older brother plays Goodnight Irene on the piano. Once the beloved called youdearest. Once, in a rainforest, knelt and beggedto make you come while a cloud floated across the mountain. You need to follow better, your ten-year-old says. Vanitas When I was a young woman, I didn’t understandthat my lack of vanity was of noconsequence. Now on the edgeof fifty, I kneel beforemy asters and dahlias in an eveninggown. I feed them ground-upstars, bone meal. In the apartmentbelow mine, my ex-husbandand his young bride recline ona silk-slung divan from Ikea.Youth with its infinite power lays downan ultimatum. After a few days in a vase,the petals descend in a show of surrenderon the kitchen counter. The stems slickand decadent, sweet stench of rot.When I was a young woman, [End Page 91] I scorned practice in favor offeeling. Now I cup the flareof my iliac crest, unmoved bylovers’ praise. As in their frost-drapedbed, the stars of the deviland clair de lune stare downthe coming cold, feast on the skeletonsof dead sea creatures. [End Page 92] Eleanor Stanford Eleanor Stanford is the author of three books of poems. Her work has appeared in Poetry, Ploughshares, the Harvard Review, the Iowa Review, and many others. She was a Fulbright fellow to Brazil and the recipient of a 2019 nea grant in poetry. She lives in the Philadelphia area. Copyright © 2022 University of Nebraska Press...

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