by Mallory Elliott
1989 (Not the Taylor Swift Album)
In the dark of the movie theater,
1989, I am three
and a mermaid is a girl
who wants to go
where she is not allowed,
who wants to be
what she is not allowed,
a girl without a mother,
hoodwinked by witches.
As for me,
I know nothing of princes.
I stay in the dark. I keep my voice.
I go without legs.
Under English class fluorescents,
2001, I am fourteen
and a siren is a woman
(or a woman enough)
who lazes on rocks,
sings sailors to ruin,
a woman with sharp teeth
who needs only herself.
In the computer room
I read about witchcraft.
Staring out the window,
I imagine the wind moves the trees
because I will it.
An idea starts to form:
I know it will leave me hungry,
but if I consumed you with my eyes
I could consume you again and again.
The Drain
All the water in the West drains to California.
“We feed the world!” said the guy
at the house show in Fresno, with pride.
“This is dry California,” our landlord says,
refusing to consent to a firepit.
Sweat stings my eyes as I try to cook dinner
in 96 degrees. The woman
at the McLaughlin reserve said settlers
planted cattle grass, careless,
overwhelming native grass.
The cattle grass dies in the summer,
catches fire. At the reserve,
they pull up the bad grass
a fistful at a time. Damage
is always easier to do. For most
of the summer, I work indoors
at a weed farm, examining “product” for mold.
They keep our room at sixty degrees,
and I shiver beneath the A/C.
“Payroll is our biggest expense here,”
they say, as if it’s our fault.
Outside the trim room, pumps
suck dirty water up and down,
making snapping noises. No one
ever tells me what they do.
“Dave Chappelle asks for this weed
when he’s in California,” someone tells me.
When I leave after my shift,
the sun and heat feel like another planet.
I get in the car and take the freeway,
like everyone else. I can’t help it.
Somerville
I want my little world back, 2013, summer
Pedal down Highland in the marshmallow heat
Shop for my little comic books, haha yeah
Up to the hill with the castle, look at the skyline, I love it
Try to light a bowl but I can’t—too much wind
Haha. That’s my Boston. I never needed anything
I just like to be out. I’m just happy to be here
I turned 27 that year
Sometimes I still feel incredibly lonely
****
Mallory Elliott is from New England and lives in Davis, California. Her work has appeared (under previous names) in McSweeney's Internet Tendency, Potluck, JAKE, New Words, and elsewhere. She reviews mostly transfeminine creative output at http://malloryelliott.substack.com.