ISSUE TEN | SPRING 2018
AUBADE WITH SOLAR ECLIPSE
You’re not supposed to look directly at it —
the eye, the penis, the eye.
You drive away in a borrowed car,
listening to music illegally downloaded when you were 12.
You’re not supposed to like it
the sex—because he’s different than the one before him. You’re
supposed to be in love. Still.
You stop at a red light,
chew a piece of gum. You don’t want
to tell your therapist tomorrow, it will just confirm the pattern.
You drive by the diner, see people lining the sidewalks,
glasses ready to protect their eyes from the sun.
You’re not supposed to look directly at it—
the light can cause temporary or permanent
blindness. This morning in bed,
you talked about the sun
and the universe and romantic things like stars
and flavored lube. You’re not supposed to talk about your ex.
But you did. And there was no waxing circle of light
to tell you when to stop. The moon is
an overused vehicle, and the sun
is your father. You’re not supposed to
need them. Or their orbits,
the motion of a lover’s hips, when from above he casts
the slightest shadow on your skin.
It all feels like science, your bodies move
in a rhythm before there was time, and a wave
before there was water.
The first time was an accident,
how the edge of the couch felt
watching cartoons in a wet bathing suit.
Or when I hugged my green teddy bear,
its fuzzed leg resting in the split of mine.
Maybe it was bouncing on his knee—
Truck, truck to Boston,
truck, truck to Maine—when I fell
into feeling good. No,
it was when I lay on her thigh,
and we rubbed our skin into pennies
newly flattened on a train track.
Diannely Antigua is currently an MFA candidate at New York University. Her book Ugly Music, forthcoming from YesYes Books, was chosen for the 2017 Pamet River Prize. Her poems can be found in Day One, Vinyl, Split Lip Magazine, Cosmonauts Avenue, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. Her heart is in Brooklyn.