Two Poems | by Lauren Milici


for the
that nearly
spilled out
onto your dinner
plate. For the lashes
that cast a shadow. For
the lips that were red, all
red, & the glitter. Sorry that
the band played louder, or was it
his pulse? Sorry for the gospel hymns
I crooned into the phone when he called.
Sorry my fingertips are ten Hail Marys. Ten
novenas. Sorry for the roses that fell out of my
mouth. For the way I pricked you & pricked you & pricked
you. My body is a garden. My body is the patron saint of want.





one by one by one. you gave me
                           the flowers, the petals I go home & eat. this is the part
              in the movie where the director wants me
                            to kill you, but I can’t, so understand something
             that wasn’t love, you told me this, near the stop sign
where you picked me up in your wife’s
                            car, I could choke myself, I wanted your hands
             to be my hands I wanted a scene big enough to make
everybody look at us. I was ready to peel back my skin
              & scream, & I was the glow of the streetlight, I looked
the wrong way & something was wrong. I can’t
             be trusted to kiss mouths without biting, so you wouldn’t
                           kiss me & I wanted to shoot the scene
             where your hands become my hands so I could cup my own
face & feel the word tender. I wanted to shoot the scene where your hands
             become my hands. I wanted to shoot for months
I rehearsed the script of my leaving, but never left.




Lauren Milici is a Florida native who writes poetry, teaches English, and is currently getting her MFA in Creative Writing somewhere in the mountains of West Virginia. When she isn’t crafting sad poems about sex, she’s either writing or shouting into the void about film, TV, and all things pop culture. @motelsiren




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