No Blow Jobs
Honestly though, no blow jobs.
Not permanently, but for a while while
you penises figure it out. Stop
putting yourselves everywhere,
this schizo shit makes me nervous,
the muffled anxiety pushing outward—
are you reflecting on your nature? Think of your
future, think of your mother. It’s like
worry got the better of you,
in darkness so often, concealed under
cotton. Two parched plums make
cruel companions, I know,
I know. I get it though: the desire
to be seen is consuming. Last night
I dreamed I was swimming
in a black sea, and a school of you
circled me: tiny Cyclops creatures
mimicking the unit, urgent
to conform. I asked one its name
but it had no identity
and they all swam away.
What we’re left with
is what we memorize, after all;
The reach so endless
and the gain so small.
the black of that black sea.
And yet, the grieving being
exposed to itself
is more dangerous than any beast
the deep could muster, more
than any lover.
Still, I refuse to graze
or tongue you. A pool of water lilies
unfreezes at the other end
of that aching. And the perfume
it’s making wakes me
suddenly, as if from fainting.
The sky above me—so empty, but so
infinitely blue—echoes where those
revived before me flew.
Spanish Linguistics, 2002
In your class,
language is a string of chaoses
formatted to your maps
and your angry martyred armies.
I am thinking of things
apart from the Iberian Peninsula,
the invasions of Arabs.
Despite my slogging, my useless
redirection of thoughts to your
linguistic discovery, I am simply
less interested in your dark histories
than in tonguing darkly, the faint
possibility of naked
thighs, of strong fingers,
of fires. In the end,
aren’t we better
educated on human hurt
by the feel of cashmere
hands turning to sand
on our hips, than by the evil Christian
politic, the distant voices of Visigoths…?
At 2AM we left
Joel’s apartment and his dad
fat and Christian sleeping
under the windows opened
to the freeway buzzing
and the ceiling fan spinning
a clicking noise so that
we could have sex at
a friend’s house whose mother
was too drunk to ever
hear our sounds which were the
awkward and predictable sounds
that one might imagine.
a grown woman
I remember them
as apple cores I threw
out the window as I was leaving
only to return and find the changing years
muted in the shade of enormous trees
and the smell of fruit blooming
everywhere in the streets.
Remy Ramirez is a poet, essayist, editor, and pop-culture journalist. She has an MA in creative writing for poetry from the University of Texas at Austin and has been published in The Southern Review, Cherry Bombe, NYLON, BUST, and Tidal (where she is currently the executive editor), among others. She lives in the Arizona desert because the thrifting is good and so is the karaoke.