by Nicole Steinberg
I Need a Bill Murray
Mostly to turn off
the lights and make eggs.
To take silent milk baths.
To tell me I’m the jerk.
To lie apart in bed because
there are enough tangles.
With eyes that speak only cruel
or amused—sometimes both,
because mean’s okay—and
a comb over, but I won’t
let that come between us.
To remind me I’m the girl
with these fucking rosy lips
and all these serious veins.
Getting Lucky with Meryl
There was something about that time—
the beach was a civilized affair, waiting
to be put away. All winter, I reminded myself
that someday soon I’d be lying on my yacht,
magically turned to gold by an excoriating
sun. A fisherman’s net conjured a miniature
ballerina, prim and delicate, huddled inside
a nautilus shell. The size of a cocktail
ring, a pistachio, twinkly and beautifully
flushed, she requested a proper lunch:
a touch of apricot, a pour of milk. The sweet
taste of liberty stained her lips. She died
in an accidental way—a tiny epiphany
seduced by the sea, its unforgiving froth.
Nicole Steinberg is the editor of Forgotten Borough: Writers Come to Terms with Queens (SUNY
Press, 2011) and the author of the chapbook Birds of Tokyo (dancing girl press, 2011). She’s
the founder of Earshot, a New York reading series for emerging writers, and she currently
lives in Philadelphia.
Comments are closed.