Three Poems by Shy Watson

 

 

THERE IS NO ETHICAL RELATIONSHIP UNDER LATE CAPITALISM

after rachel rabbit white

 

so let it be

two unworn

crushed velvet robes

on the floor

like a feeling

which only increases

in its intensity

over time

in the backyard

on the chair

in the dark

on the first night

with our cigarettes

in the dark

was there rain

i can’t even remember

if there was rain

 

 

a bit buoyant

 

from yoga or whatever

when you’re surrounded

by witches

you just become one

coated in my own sheen

my body’s produced

little droplets

on my nose &

a dumb fear

of drowning

what i admire most is

someone’s willingness

to enter

an isolation tank

as it means

so much more than

entering an

isolation tank

i’m in straight-up

awe of you

a burning bush

at random in the desert of

myself in the city

in may in june in july

it feels like a lifetime

watching television

in a clean kitchen

in ozark missouri

surrounded by

packaged foods

i like the idea that

currency is exchanged

for experience

that everytime we want

something we have to

sacrifice varying amounts

of ourselves just to

prove it

like

the god of capitalism

is starving

for sacrifice

i make a shrine of you

of us i offer

lubricant

but i’d offer

other things

like absolution

& the active consciousness

which relinquishes in me

my antiquated habits

undone like a sweater

i always wore light pink

& it doesn’t fit me anymore

& anyway why wear

something unflattering

to the gallery of you

i said I’m pregnant

with words i kind of

meant it

cupping at acupuncture

the healing qualities

of beet juice reminding me

of how the most beautiful things

occur naturally

it all feels natural with you

& if we lived together

i would become a member of

community shared agriculture,

be more vigilant about

yoga & improved forms

of myself but i’ll do it anyway

like i’m inspired

like i want to be my best self

if not for me

then i guess for you

i only show up to the party

when somebody’s waiting for me

 

 

ford f150

 

somewhere in-between

a rock and a

hard place theres something

dumb and trite

o, woe is me, always

in flux i cried into

the river and she

cried into me

and it was final

the last scene

and everyone else

in the crowd cried

too

and shit’s so lonely

sometimes, mom

and shit’s so lonely

sometimes, my best friend

the only truck

that’s been significant

in your life

the brightest color

that you’ve ever seen

etc.

Shy Watson

Shy Watson is a poet living mostly in new york. She wrote Cheap Yellow (CCM 2018) and a few chapbooks. Her work appears in places like The Rumpus, New York Tyrant, and Hobart. She has a finished novel manuscript that needs a home. Follow her on twitter @proverbialthot.

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