Poetry by Tula Francesca

Judith Jackson CC




GLITTER

Glitter can go to hell
says the father in the stationery store on 4th St,
talking to the cheerful clerk as they laugh
about slumber parties, carpets,
uncleanable crevices. 
My ears swivel on their hinges 
trying to catch it all, glitter can go to hell.
A couple months ago I began collecting
overheard statements, trying to tune
people in rather than out. Saving gems.
This is a thrilling specimen. 
Glitter can go to hell.

I’ve heard other people before
sharing their venom for glitter,
how it never, ever goes away.
A pinch in an envelope – doom.
Worse than anthrax maybe. 
Sprinkled from a balcony over
the head of an actress in stage fright
(like the final scene of Season 1
in PEN15) – catastrophe. Maybe
that’s why the season ended there,
because it took so long to clean up.

But as you can probably guess,
I like glitter. Are you surprised
I’m looking it up in my 100 year old, 
pocket-sized dictionary?
It says to shine, to sparkle. Verb only. 
The way old oak leaves
sparkle after rain, the rain we’ve prayed
so many months for, it’s coming,
it’s here. And the way the flat 
puddles shine in the street, 
mirrors laid out for us to catch 
ourselves, glittering as we go 
from place to place.





H A T E  P I E C E

Think about who you hate.
Write them down.
Kiss the words all over,
then tear them up
and feed them to the plants.
Do it again if you need to.
          

inspired by Yoko Ono’s  Mess Piece, 1964





C L E A V E  T O  T H E  P L E A S U R E

From a podium in the library basement a semi-successful poet tells us about submitting. We have brought our computers. There are balloons; it is going to be a submitting party! I know a little about submitting. You dig a hundred holes and you carefully bury 3, 4, or 5 of your best poems in each hole. Then you wait. 

The poet seems tired. She tells us to ask ourselves, Why are we doing this? If the answer is ego, forget it. She tells us this whole thing can be very painful. There are charts of her own submissions to prove it. The old people listen. They already know a lot about pain. They just want someone to see their poetry. Is that so wrong? 

Cleave to the pleasure, the poet says. Which sounds like a good line. She tells us to protect our poems. Now I imagine spotted fawns nibbling at the side of the road. I want so badly for them to make it. They’re yours, she says. I write down, cleave to the pleasure, and months later I find the note, but it’s too late.




Tula Francesca (she/her) is a writer, artist, editor, and zine maker in Petaluma, California. Her work has appeared in Ambidextrous Bloodhound Press, Crab Creek Review, FENCE, Feral, Flare, Fron/tera, The Inflectionist Review, One Art, RHINO, and other places. She is the author of chapbook If There Are Horns, and microchap This Was Like I Said All Gone. web: tulafrancesca.com  instagram: @francescalouisepreston
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