Two Poems by James Prenatt

Bleach

​1

              People run out of chances.
There’s a scapegoat for everybody,
              but goddamn it, how a lover with a leather jacket, a rarely seen smile and a penchant for doling out compliments to pissed off women can get his way too quick.

Your body has forgotten its need for him.
              You went from how-could-anything-feel-this-good
                               to I-never-want-to-change-anyway
                                                                  to I never want this to end,.

                Your body has remembered its need for his drug of choice and how he shares it and how it makes you both say “You’re all I want, you’re all I need.”
                How his lust seemed to thrust up your nose with such a rush and no buildup and his sex was good because that dope-like cock could make you walk through fire.

Time to grow up.
It was the wrong crowd and your face that was too bright for anyone to love.
                                                                                  He tells you it’s easier to hate than love.
It’s all directed in the wrong spot, wrong people, most of all you in fact, too good to be real, told you you had your time to be a kid and we’re sorry,
                                                                                                                                                                  I’ll take it back.

You earned it. You earned him.

It was something to do when someone else was doing it and now you need it,
                                                                                                                                          please, you need it.

He smelled like horses and you wanted someone to carry you for a while.
How you love life when you do it,
how you can do things without taking a deep breath
to slow the unwanted hummingbird heartbeat leaving the house gives you,
how you share it, baby, it’s better than anything.


2
We’ll die young once we run out.
We’ll be like Kurt,
The Great White American Junkie.  

We’ll do it together, he says, live normal again.
We’ll save up money and I won’t be such an entitled piece of shit.
There’s happiness out there, beyond this dreamcage,
real happiness, you know?
                               We’ll find pleasure in the simple things again: hiking, sunsets, reading on a cool
                               day and blasting music during the summer with the windows down like we’re
                               sixteen.

I could look my mom in the eyes back then.
My hands sweat when that boy, he was my first, would hold my hand.
He gave me jewelry I liked.

                              I learned something new every day, that’s what I liked about school. I read
                              when I was supposed to, studied when I was supposed to, and woke up and
                              went to bed and work when I was supposed to.

Malls and sneaking into R-rated movies, a black and a white dog every day at the door,
ice cream on a hot day, oh, how we owned the world, how we ran through traffic,
how we said no and no and no to our parents until they weren’t real anymore.

Do you remember what sixteen was like?




Dreams in Utero

Last night I dreamt I loved him like you loved him.
I knew what it was to incubate,
to teach speech,
to feel the echo of his first words in my head,
to know the imprint of his DNA in my brain.

I felt his heartburn hair in my chest.
When he cried, I cried.
When he moved, I felt him move.
I dressed him in his sleep.
I dressed him in utero.

As we wake, the rain comes down grey and humid.
We could swim through the air this morning.  
Give me the stethoscope so I can listen to your heart,
record for my sound machine at night.

The hum of the air conditioner.
The rattle of his restless sleep in the next room.
This blue light cast upon the earth— the blanket that covers your body.
The music of your breath as I wake you up.

Unlike most things, I don’t need this to be better than the first time
because the first time, unlike expected didn’t realize what it was.

Last night I dreamt he was my reflection.
His eyes— his complexion were my own,
but this dream was the last.




Bio: James Prenatt lives in Baltimore where he spends his time being kinky and occasionally paying rent. He graduated from Towson University with a degree in English and he currently interns at publishing company, Brickhouse Books. His work has appeared in Five2One, 34th Parallel, and Cactus Heart.