Eratosphere - Three Poems by Quincy Lehr

WHY THERE IS NO SOCIALISM
IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

At 4:15 AM, the city bus
Had pulled up to the curb, its silhouette
Marked dimly by the light that crept through grates,
Fencing in empty stores. I paid my fare
And squeezed beside a sleepy Barnard girl.
She moved a centimetre to her left—
Away from me—and twitched a pinkish nose
Below grey, narrowed eyes, accusing me
Of something, so I leaned against the glass
And stared at greasy, distant streaks of light.

Each one of us was tired, pissed-off, and bored,
Angry at the hour and with those pricks—
That fat-assed bitch, who muttered at a cell phone,
That rat-faced airline worker at the front,
That punk-ass hoodlum, glaring at his feet,
That stuck-up twat, that sad-eyed brown-haired schmuck
Gawking at New York’s predawn, backlit blackness.
And if we were united, our disdain
For every dumb-shit creep—in short, ourselves—
Had fused our isolations into one.

—From Across the Grid of Streets

A CHANGE OF SEASON

A sunny girl from Northern climes,
hair and skin both honey-bright
with wide blue eyes, and in the grey
of an early spring, exuding light,

she reeks of health. Her diary
is crammed with fitness, every date
a rushed itinerary, full
of things to keep her in that state—

aerobics and organic fruit
—rip the flesh and suck the pips!—
bike to work from a D4 home…
until one day, her bright gaze slips

and falls on him, Italianate—
subtle, with a hint of threat,
bling on his finger. And his voice
cloys with a charm that makes her wet.

So he’s ‘in business’—various things—
the sort of wealth with wads of cash
from nowhere in particular,
a sleek Mercedes, and a stash

of blow from South America
back at his place (with potpourri
above the toilet, and the sink
crowned with mousses from Italy).

Fast-forward through frenetic nights,
romantic dinners, snorted coke,
flowers delivered to her work,
their favourite song, their private joke.

He takes the gambit, and succeeds.
A ring’s produced, and she says yes
on a long walk through Phoenix Park.
The wind is blowing from the west,

wafting and dulcet, as the sun
sinks down behind the stands of trees,
promising in a breathless rush
a life of indolence and ease.

But still, they pack and make their way
to meet the ‘Family’, now hers,
with bodyguards and smoking wives
with Gucci bags and hideous furs.

Proserpina looks up and gasps,
stupid in her shock, her scream
unuttered as they pull her down,
beyond the reeking, corpse-choked stream

burbling with the failing pleas
that echo through the dark and wet,
rushing into darker caves
beyond forgiveness or regret.

—Published in The Dark Horse
TRIPTYCH

Saturday Morning

The driving scourge, the contour of the flesh
that, flayed past any wisdom, turns to mush,
the sudden surge of wounds exposed afresh;
they lead to ruptures. As the fissures gush,

Bathsheba’s bastards from the illicit tumble
will stare at shadows, too fucked-up and frightened
to keep their act together, let things crumble,
and leave the kingdom weakened, unenlightened.

His clothing crumpled by the mantelpiece
seems to rustle slightly with his snore
that echoes with a vacuous release.
Though no one’s there, she glances at the door.

And now she turns to stare at the pictures on
the mantel, disarrayed by last night’s passion,
disturbed or just knocked over as the dawn
approached—but a progression in a fashion.

A dark-haired little girl, with all the schmaltz
of knee-length dresses, ponytails, and dolls,
a gap-toothed smile that doesn’t (yet) seem false...
or maybe a tomboy dressed in overalls

with Tonka truck in hand. A ballerina?
A Daddy’s Girl? A miniature of Mom?
A gymnast aiming for the sports arena?
A future heartbreak waiting for her prom?

A picture’s static image can’t reveal
the uncommemorated days—nor can it
capture in light the way she used to feel
some day beneath the sun on this blue planet.

The past is breached; the front collapses in.
She grasps his hand, a gesture faked by rote,
rehearsed in daydreams, wheedled out with gin.
A rumbling noise comes belching from his throat.

The neighbours note the unfamiliar car
and wonder how their property will smell
when downwind from the backwash of the bar.
His car’s up on the kerb, parked parallel.

The burglar of the body shifts and farts.
He gets up, staggers off, and urinates.
She groans, and her defences come apart
like shredded cocktail napkins, but she waits

for him to come to bed to throw him out.
Shock ricochets across his face. He rises,
dresses, holding back a furious shout
against the ‘fucking bitch’. He leaves. The crisis

is done for now, until another night,
another business trip that leaves her stranded,
lonely, and bored, with ravenous appetite
for some companionship, cajoled, demanded—

with the same results. Convenient fictions,
raw material for the shrink next week—
catharsis, yes, but mixed with dark predictions
of too much booze, a passable physique.

It does no good when he has gone away
to say it didn’t happen. Nonetheless,
she sets those thoughts aside, and through the day,
the light streams in; she watches motionless.

And where the hell’s Uriah as she moans
another’s name (or was it his?) in bed—
‘off on business’? Even though he phones—
she knows his mind is somewhere else instead,

perhaps his job and keeping her in style
while keeping far away to play at power
in conference rooms. She’ll bear it for a while,
but waits for David to see her in the shower.

Saturday Afternoon

The chic cafe in the poshest shopping centre,
a caramel macchiato and a paper,
while strains of some obese Italian tenor
stir in the background. But his arias taper

into some singer with a soft guitar.
The CD’s at the counter, and her friends
shift the conversation to the star
they barely hear. The tangent hits its end,

then on to the news and gossip and the kids
that Katie hasn’t had, persistent rumours
that she’d hit—and here I quote—‘the skids’.
Innuendoes metastasise like tumours.

The sagging eyelids give it all away,
the fumble for her purse, the murmured hex
against the brightness of this Saturday
afternoon. A subtle stench of sex

clings to her body like cologne. She shifts
self-consciously beneath their judging gazes,
narrowed with knowing, and by the time she lifts
the coffee to her lips, the staring blazes.

‘Are you coming to the benefit?’
Yeah right. They have to ask. Recall the scene
last winter? Then they’re talking baby shit,
God knows what else. How to keep things clean

without the hired help. And what was that?
Yes, it's Dior, and yes it's new. I know
you only mean to say I'm getting fat.
But you can’t say these things out loud. God, no.

The etiquette of malice is quite subtle,
especially served cold, reduced to craft,
shrewd as diplomacy. Emotions scuttle
the delicate interplay upon a raft

of those who tolerate each other. School
or charities or work; it doesn’t matter.
Each has its own, unstated Golden Rule.
‘Do unto others...’? Bullshit! Stick to chatter,

never show weakness. Don't come out and say it,
insinuate. And never show your hand
but damn well know how you intend to play it,
aggressive and ruthless, eager for command.

Sunday Evening

And there she is, a model for us all,
brunette and buxom, eyes widely set and blue,
wasp waist, long legs, ever so slightly tall,
the stuff of songs. And what’s a man to do

except applaud? This woman’s our ideal,
a huge collective hard-on, and we see her
emerge from the contestants, almost real,
as also-rans exhale and want to be her...

drunk and spoken for and slightly mad,
a strapless gown but frumpy underwear,
weeping as the scene turns mopey-sad—
tragic or pathetic, do we care?

Well, not tonight. The moral is the same
as it is every night, at home or out,
alone or with another. Sobs of shame
from well-known sources follow every bout

till she collapses, sick, unsatiated,
into a pillow with a lusty snore.
Turn out the lights, angry but sedated.
Head for the couch and softly close the door.

The nights are cold despite the thermostat,
the duvet that she wraps up around her feet.
The nights are always dark despite the flat
outside glimmers—pale, devoid of heat.

‘It's hard being beautiful’; the expectations
prove too much sometimes, and so she rests
swathed in blankets against these situations,
arms crossed defensively beneath her breasts

against intruders, husbands, and such lovers
as come her way. It’s much more cosy here
behind the door and underneath the covers.
Repeat, repeat. There goes another year.

A few more hairs turn grey; a few more lines
crinkle from her eyes; a bit more sag
lowers her bosom. An old dress underlines
a thin expanse of flab. But still, she’ll brag

about the pictures on the mantelpiece,
a woman she resembles, but never was.
She’ll pay a shrink to rant to for ‘release’,
trying to figure out the things that cause

her to be like this, but in the night,
there’s just recrimination as the drink
recedes, and fears of age and cellulite
take over. Screw it. Tell it to your shrink

if you’ll feel better, but I’m through with you,
your false ‘new starts’. That tragic diva pose,
the things you weep—even when they’re true.
Hangovers wait beneath the pile of clothes.

—Published in Census