Suzanne Richardson

Crying Woman in the Apartment Next Door: Albuquerque, New Mexico

Suzanne Richardson

I lie
on top of him
and feel
myself grow
strange a
crow’s claw
caught on the nest, a
blade of grass
blue-dull at the
root no man
is bigger than
my own dark
hole beside
the coffee table
I am dead now
sleeping
next to him
is a gun I
never wanted
what’s left of
2 a.m.? Can’t we fix it?
the way I stretched
myself thin on him
a stream of maple
syrup

Woman in Alley: Flagstaff, Arizona

I used to be like you, swelling—purple under
my milk dress. A tooth fell out every time I let a man
core me. Once they get in, there’s nothing—boring holes
is an ecstasy, a garden. Look, there one goes—Lord,
save us from his circular hunger. I am too much of a desert
to receive but I still want the water. My breasts are crushed
petals. I will drink gasoline. I will open my coat, show
you where it hurts. I followed every man
who colored a map up my thigh—beware!
At the center of all men is a deep smoke. Don’t be
like me: the bull rider who only feels complete
the moment he’s been gored.

SUZANNE RICHARDSON earned her MFA in Albuquerque, New Mexico at the University of New Mexico. She currently lives in Utica, New York where she is an Assistant Professor of English at Utica College where she teaches English and creative writing. Her work has appeared in New Ohio Review, New Haven Review, The Journal, BOOTH, Blood Orange Review, PANK Magazine, and others. Her work can be found at: www-suzannerichardsonwrites.tumblr.com.

Advertisements