Matina L. Stamatakis lives in upstate New York. She has had works published in various experimental magazines like Eratio and Zafusy, and is an editor of an e-poetry collective: Venereal Kittens. When she’s not engaged in writing, Matina likes to spend time with her son and travel.
POEMS
FIFTY BOREDOMS IN THE CLOSET
I’m bored of you today,
same as the video I threw in the closet
yesterday–or the ripped pair of pants I once
wore that were chic–now, as you can guess,
there they lay in the closet.
They will be replaced tomorrow
along with you and the annoying twiddle of
my insanely boring thumbs–always turned inward
rotating, rotating, rotating sick on a spit
like my lamb’s heart which once
pulsated for you.
Now I watch Jerry Springer in the evening,
and soon, he will follow you to the place
where all of my skeleton lovers hung themselves
out of indirectly inflicted boredom.
And even my ramble, insanity, desperation
finds itself in claustrophobic fits, where I most
expect it to be–eventually.
I have a bone to pick with you…
why do they always say that? How can
you pick a bone? And why would you?
It would be just as inane to say “ I have a corpse
to pick with you”, or “I have a nose to pick with you”…
It’s funny, but my Grandmother had a little adage
I think suits this case well:
“If you piss on the side of the road, you’ll get pinkeye”.
Imagine how disgusting that would be. I wouldn’t
come near you for a week or two–
surely that would save you some time.
EMPTY HOUSE
These windows are bare virgins, Thea. Look how they mock
us without curtains–they’re casings of our former selves,
rattle-bones broken in by frequent wind gusts.
Is this what broke us? the torrent blow
of gusts, cheek to cheek. Is this what defeated us, Thea?
Do not speak, just nod.
We’ve neglected the days and now they’re vacant,
full of wondering.
Wondering about abstract paintings we bought
but never understood: the night’s ascent of white
encysting day into a belly of quicksand, hip pockets,
satin sheets we clung to like rabid beasts–
These Dahlian dreamscapes have morphed
us into melted clocks, twisted lovers.
And belongings, a world of threadbare wings
each longing to be made whole again:
a suitcase, two postcards from Cochin, Paris,
a box of Godiva chocolates with each center
carefully bitten out–
and you sat like Lady Day admiring
the intricate hollows of a grand piano.
How your gardenias radiated our window
adjacent the clock, near our phorograph
on the mantle which held precious
a past with nostalgic remembrance.
I would have kissed your fingers to remember
little, skeletal stems devoid of flowers,
but in your hair they rested
immovable, frozen–
grasping naked strands of our love.
