Poem: Sarah Lisovich

Chicago Fire snogging.

A Particular Heat

to me you are a particular heat
                not a matadorian red, like i like
                                that inspires rage, and oil paintings
                                                of defined pulse and musculature

not like the fantasy of havana night sweat,
                extemporized by chicago’s winter pavements,
                                where wild, severed horse hooves
                                                conquer the “cha-cha-cha”

certainly not the panic of 1871 in the very same city
                panic induced by the angels of destruction
                                dressed in the warm half of the rainbow, later,
                                                advertised as rebirth, and sold at half the price,
                                                                in the merchandise mart, city of its own.

your heat is closer to muffled radioactivity
                that lives between keyboard keys,
                                that have spent too many nights awake
                                                and for what? videos of life sized lizards,
                                                                virtual coffee dates with high school sweethearts,
                                                                                but mostly animated wrestling

more like heat like static, hot from hair follicles
                rupturing romance with nylon balloon friction:
                                healthy, strong, lively — but not too lively,
                                                like the hypochondriac’s bedtime prayer.

heat like television static that kisses flesh goodnight,
                leaving mellow glow and a sitcom sort of satisfaction,
                                which is to say, just really super fine, and familiar,
                                                the way the world would be, garnished in taupe.

to you, i am something like sand
                a grain or a beach, depending on the angle and the day
                                towards you i am tender, molding, consequentially,
                                                to the groove of your print: a maze of which i could conquer, easily.

to which you say,
                “get over yourself,” which is just code
                                written in a language of our neuroses,
                                                that translates to sanity, for us both

to which i say,
                meet me in private,
                                when i sift downwards, inevitably, clumsily,
                                                mass of flammable materials, bones
                                                                behind Chicago’s skeleton, of 1871.
Sarah Lisovich is a recent graduate from Beloit College, and current Chicago based artist and writer, exploring the grooves of the city. Endlessly inspired by the tenderness of Pablo Neruda, and surreality of Rene Magritte, the new artist is on the hunt to craft and create her heart out.

Crossposted with Queen Bitch.

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