glitterature for the mobs
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BRIDGET O'BERNSTEIN
​

Picture
Image by Daniel Uncapher
The Fair
Katy   &   I   go  to  the   fair.   I  teach   Katy   to   shoot  the   apple   between   the   eyes.
We find two men  with cowboy hats  &  big teeth  &  tongues,  and we enjoy confusing
them   with   one    another.    We   only   have   eyes   for   each   other   &    don’t   mind
who the men are  or ask them  what they want.  We peer  at each other  over their thick
jacket  collars.  We let them  put their  arms  around us. We let them  take us on rides.
Big  black  Ferris   Wheel.   They   shoot   darts  at   the  dumb   fish  while   we   pretend
to watch & hold each other’s hands under  the table. We turn into small trees covered
in dangling fruit. Everybody  gets a ruby  cream  cone.  An archway  dumps  silver-pink
glitter on your head, down the neck of your blouse. We laugh & itch. Birds are downed
like planes. We don’t care much for love.
The Savage
I  tell  Katy  she  is  like  my  sister.  Then  I  climb onto  the  railing and tell Katy I think
I  might   die   today.  She  says,   No  Bridget,  not  today.   We   are  going  to  race  cars
against   each   other.   We   will   eat   watermelon.   She  is   counting  on   her  fingers.
You will stick a  sparkler  in my fist.  I will look  at you on my birthday, when I turn and
​turn,   and  I  will  be   afraid.  Four,  five.   You  will   tell  me  that   the  sparks  are  cold.
They  don’t  burn.   Then  Katy  takes   me  by  my  long  hair  and  holds  me   ruthlessly
above water.
The Way I Love Frank Stanford
There’s a  rendition  of Mary Magdalene  by  Titian,  where she looks exalted,  her yellow
madrigal  hair  streaming  out.   She  is   opening,   emitting  some  kind  of  energy like
a  flaming  hornet’s nest  forced  underwater  by a  small  child,  the tortured  creatures
streaming out, their wakes like gold ribbons.
                I am  hammering  myself  to a wall  and I can’t  stop.  I can’t stop  for eight full
nights and then I go out  walking in Carrara  without a self,  but  I bring a knife in case
I want  to get  close  to anyone.  The way  I love  Frank Stanford  is the way  I have never
loved  myself,   until  now.  I  put  on   yellow  dress  after  yellow  dress,   yellow  flowers
in my  hair  &  cherry  lace  undergarments?  I can’t  remember  something important.
Fuchsia  lips.  I’ve  tried  to  explain  this  before.  I love  him  the  way  I  think  I  always
wanted  to  stay  nineteen  because  I thought  it was  the hottest  age and  if everyone
wanted me I would be safe.
                I love  Stanford  the way  I feel when the light  above me pops out, and I swear
into a  hole  in the wall.  I love him  the way I drove slowly with the dent in her left door
to buy a  new  bulb at  Sutherland  Lumber.  And  before I could  make myself put it  in,
I sat in the kitchen for hours holding it in my hand, slack, until the room and the
house and my body was completely dark.
With Flowers
I gave a blowjob  to a boy  when I was  seventeen  and he was fifteen,  our  young insane
bodies working on  a  red rug  hinged  with  white  flowers  in  my  parents’  house.  
He’d
never  gotten  head,  he’d  said,  but  he  seemed  comfortable  enough  with  it.  All 
men 
are men.  I might’ve been talking all night about  how excellent I was at things--a short
blue  shirt  riding  up  above   my  sparkling  belly  button  on  the   glowing   swing   set. 
​
But I cried  on  his thighs  part way through,  and  he had to  hold me  to get me to stop. 
​
He bought waffles for us somewhere  in weak light  and we made  careful conversation
about his life in the Hamptons. I climbed the stairs and waited for my 
parents to come
home so I  could tell them nothing. I sat on  the floor  waiting,  
leaning my face against
a  large  potted  plant,  which felt  cool.   My  mother  might  come  
in  with  bright  keys
jangling,  see my face  red and swollen from crying and scold me, 
Why do you look like
that?   She  might  gesture  sharply,  Come  here  Daughter,  and  run  
a  brush  roughly
through my  hair,  wetting the brush from a glass, dripping it on the 
table and winding
my hair wordlessly in tight dark braids I didn’t ask for.

BRIDGET O'BERNSTEIN is from Brooklyn where she runs a poetry reading series called Sang for Nothing.  She is currently an MFA candidate for poetry at Syracuse University, where she is a Poetry Editor for Salt Hill Journal. Her poems have been published in or are forthcoming in The Bennington Review, The McNeese Review, Jet Fuel Review and Forklift, Ohio.
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