4 poems by Emily Schrenkler

To pay for a woman

is to assume the price of a meal is comparable to the change I
toss out every month.
Even more change than you could ever toss at my counter with a wink,
anticipating my glazed, customer-service smile in return.
For a week each month,
I am turned inside out and still expected to know my rights
from my lefts.
I feel drugged with the strain of my neck, the pain of tears building in my throat,
with the loss of control, the isolation of not moving from my bed for hours.
While my entire body bleeds,

and bleeds,
and bleeds, and bleeds,
and bleeds blood, sweat, tears, my whole being.

Meanwhile, I clench my fist and grit my teeth, to restrain the Furies inside
by the cage of my own making.
Meanwhile, you stand at my register explaining to me,
“I wouldn’t be able to work here with a distraction like you,”
complete with an acidic smile.

 

 

 

 

 

Faded Love

Sometimes the phrase seems too worn out:

I love you
ily
Love you
I love you so much

I worry that the worth is worn down
by the constant use for my friends and family.
But what is careless about re-wearing my favorite jeans?
The ones I’ve worn into perfection, faded at the knees, stretched when I sit down?
What is careless about dog-earring my favorite book,
where every other page has a crease in the
top corner?
What is careless about dulling and sharpening my favorite pencil into a stub?
What is careless about the dips of wooden stairs, carved by my family’s soles?
So maybe I’ll realize that “I love you” is my oldest recipe,
the one my parents gave to me, the one I love to use and gift to anyone I care about.
Maybe my love isn’t the old squeaky steps in my kitchen,
but the path I use and know to avoid.
Because I think I prefer my “I love you” to wear you down
so even when it’s not there, you can feel the dip I wore into
your heart.

 

 

 

 

 

Bruised Limes

Your memory presses into my mind like a finger to an old, green bruise.

Sour in my stomach, sour on my bones,

I want to puke you out.

The gentlest prod of you

             alongside me

leaks  out   of    my     blood       vessels.

You and I visiting Somsen Hall, you and I visiting the art museum, you and I in the car.

You and I and my sisters and my parents and my family,

my heart.

You on my family’s fridge.

You carved       your place        with my serrated knife, but it’s empty

    and molded

   and black-and-blue

Your                absence            gently eased, heavy on my bruises,

and it sours me all over again.

 

 

 

 

To Give You the Night Sky

How can I give you the night sky?

If I were an astronomer, I’d give you an otherworldly asteroid.

If I were a botanist, I’d give you a moonflower or an evening primrose.

If I were a painter, I’d rival Van Gogh and gift it to you.

But I am just me,

so I’ll give you this:

A craning neck with a foggy breath, curling

towards the dense velvet of a night sky.

A moon’s reflection dancing in the ripples of a lake.

The bottom corner of my bed pushed

under my window,

a girl kneeling, nose pressed to the glass, whispering to the moon.

A fire and a smokey mirage stretching up, trying to touch the stars.

One beam from the moon, hurling through a city’s cloudy and hazy blanket,

reminding me I’m never too far from home.

A rocking boat, bug spray, the Fourth of July, fireworks, meteor showers.

Squeaky kitchen floors, a compulsion to tell the truth,

whispers of a promise to always understand.

 

All I can give you is this night sky.