Gala Mukomolova
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My Brother Gives Me Advice |
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Tea spouts into the teacup, spilling over. Anya pours cognac for my brother,
her husband, and we all toast to his birthday. Even so, Dima leaves to meet his mistress, napoleon cake half eaten on his plate. Years ago, sober, my brother told me two things: 1. You make sacrifices for your family. 2. If you're a lesbian then you’re not my sister. —the giant blue gems on my niece's jeans are a mass of cool hard tears— his children want to go home. Anya is a grey-faced clock, clears dishes. Mama takes cake to the neighbors and doesn't think my advice worthwhile since I know nothing about men. Sitting on the couch, I rest my hand on my father's. He doesn't turn to me. We sit like this for a long time. He stares past the TV. I remember the two daughters he left behind. He never writes to them and never asks me about love. |
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Smoke
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Girls gone missing do not want poems
when they are closing up alone Rattling gate, same late night shift, sharp key they keep between one finger and the next in case They do not care about the wet dust left on the rag, color of first bleed, mud on a boot Gone girls will leave a cast iron oiled and lit from underneath until smoke comes Gone girls never mind smoke, they lock hands and spin until a light sparks because they are fast and when they fall they fall anywhere locked down rock club Prospect Park two blocks from a brownstone walkup basin at the edge of the boardwalk bridge between the train station and the street, outside Dunkin' Donuts on Coney Island Ave anywhere |
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from Without Protection
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Sophomore year, college, I’m the grey skirt that trails behind me, ripping open. Coral
ring left in my mailbox from a woman I’ve never fucked and am trying to forget. Days open, close bone-cold. My mentor left me her book at her deathbed: A Family Of Strangers. I ruin it sloppy crying. Beatrice, Dusty writes, You’re mine, like she’s Dante. It’s Myspace, she says whatever she wants. Once I watched her prance a field, topless, in goat pants: Pan. Now we haunt the internet. It works like this: we know each other’s moans before we know each other’s mouths. We build a citadel out of expectation. She sends me her shirt rank with sweat and amber oil. I keep it under my pillow, huff it in my sleep. Webcam on, I brace my leg on the desk. Three-hour plane ride from New York to Austin, bouquet of long stemmed lollipops bright stained glass in my lap. She’s wearing a tight 70’s white linen pantsuit. Her hair’s tinged with blue. We kiss and it’s clumsy, sweet. Her small black truck bumps and speeds against the Texas afternoon. We corral our breaths and feign shyness, broncs in a bucking chute. |
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Somebody is singing Lesley Gore’s “You Don’t Own Me,”
badly, sort of shrill and declarative. I’m working on nothing waiting for my lover who is not always kind to me but, and this is Lesley Gore’s ghost coming on, I’m young and I want to be loved. When you are sleeping with someone more accomplished, your name is Yes. I’m the beaded curtain jangling and parted on the reading stage. Why is it here? What is the purpose of beads? Oh, and this is… um. Yes. Tacky. |
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GALA MUKOMOLOVA Gala received her MFA from the Helen Zell Writers’ Program. Her work has been published in the Indiana Review, Drunken Boat, PANK, and others. Monthly, she transforms into an astrologer called Galactic Rabbit. Lots of people believe in her.
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