Poetry by Clayre Benzadón

     jxj CC




Scene


In  a house of
memories
(thanks for them): 

(this ain’t a) scene 
(act ___):
 let’s wait

in line in     middle 
school  to see  fall out   
boy in     the auditorium

and then have your 
LG / Sony Ericsson flip 
   / phone fall 

and crack 
in the process

and then I learned lying 
       is the most 
fun a girl can have 

without taking her 
  lousy blouse / skin  off
(exchanging body

heat in the passenger
      seat is nostalgic):

                   *

I confessed,   I messed up,
Because girls  girls boys
        are all   so good

I’m not ok,            I swear
I promise        this is all just
a scene a scene  the scene kids

were running my   eye liner  all over
me  building god    gifting me a 20
            dollar            nose bleed

                     *
  
(well, it’s just  a wet dream 
        for the   tweet  /  zine)

                      *

as long as I’ll bleed       see, she hit me 
hard enough  there    I said it  I begged 
   her  hold me tight          (or don’t)
  no I, still wistful,           punkmourn

           the answer to do you love 
                            me  like 
                           you did          
                          yesterday
                  
                                *
take your beret         with you 
as you leave                keep berating
 me shrug me off      (by the way, I had to 
change the name       of this poem 
       
      so I wouldn’t              get sued
I slept with all fall          out killjoys
I’m   lap dance                      ready

                                      *

Do your part to save     the scene
win a sin/ner(vous)      (sorry you’re
not always a winner;  today is slightly 
                                               sarcastic)
                              *

it’s a fever you can’t   sweat out
panic panic      it’s a dark march 
to wrecked                   revenge
static myspace      AOL sessions





                                                                                                               Cyclical Juxtapositions


                                                                                                                                      I.

A paperclip is like a hanger  a chain is like a tingling echo a spring, it connects all together in a curl, a whirlwind. Paperclips are supposed hold it all together, and yet they still pierce the wrist sometimes, when the end unbends, its moon loop points straight towards the celaphic vein. The remainder of hangers are similar: they always leave you baited with their curved-in hooks that always grab onto the worn shirt instead of the blouse it should be holding; instead, that clothing item is falling off of the spun-dumb contraption anyway. 

                                                                                                                                      --

Tingling is the feeling of metal on your hands when static hits you hard, you hear it in your ears. Again with the ears. Try to listen more carefully. Spiraling thoughts wind into spiral-bound notebooks. Maybe the spiral brings to mind those on the top of fences, the ones you can’t touch because you’ve heard they electrify you, just like that static, only a thousand times worse. 

All the metals sing. All the metals sting in some way too. 


                                                                                                                                      II.

Consider this metal-hinged song: tomorrow is really today, doubled.  One second is as long as the palm branch. Take it with a block of rocks. Light makes me feel high sometimes. I am unsatiated as a blue whale. Whales will lose their instinct, will become extinct when that happens. I wish this fact wasn’t real, but no one’s krilling, I mean, kidding this April Fool’s Day.   
     I meant Pay Day. I meant party, I meant Dolly Day. I meant holiday  (I’m on roll now). 
I never meant any words to sizzle at the face of the fence,   to revolve around / over us  / after all.



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​Clayre Benzadón (she / they) is a queer (bi /pan) Sephardic (Mizrahi)-Askhenazic poet, educator, foodie, and activist recovering from an eating disorder, depression, and emotional abuse. She has been awarded the 2019 Alfred Boas Poetry Prize for her poem "Linguistic Rewilding." Her chapbook, "Liminal Zenith", was published by SurVision Books in 2019. She has been published in places including SWWIM, Olney Magazine, and Blue Stem Magazine. She also has her own Esty store, (LemonMoonDropCharms). Find more about her here: https://www.clayrebenzadon.com.