Jeremy Radin: TWO POEMS • Cleaver Magazine

Jeremy Radin
TWO POEMS

Ode to the Nectarine

O secretive sunrise of an armadillo,
won’t you please uncurl for me? Of all
the fruits I know you alone must live.
Fiery armadillo dredged through blood
& yolk, I have been watching you for hours,
waiting for you to emerge from yourself
& shuffle across the kitchen counter, sniffing
at the knives. I set out a plum for you, bowl
of dead spiders. I haven’t the faintest as to
what you like to eat. The encyclopedias
keep your secrets well, but I am persistent,
little Jupiter. I will witness the unwitnessed.
Your unfolded golden splendor. Treasurous
armadillo, shall I place you in a bedroom
with another of your kind—scattered petals,
incense burning, Al Green playing low? Shall
I leave you to it & peek through the keyhole?
No. My eyes would never survive it; the sacred
savagery of your love—a pair of burning gods
divulging to the dark the unspeakable
violence of sugar.

Marriages

The Fries

At the burger joint your friend thinks it is funny
to snatch, while you are not looking, the fries

one by one off your plate, & stuff them, grinning
into his mouth. Even after you’ve explained to him

that it’s as if he’s reaching over & eating your beloved’s
hands, how she is all you have: a wife of piping gold

to stave off an encroaching dark. Though you gesture,
half-joking, with your edgeless knife. Though you growl

like a goblin Pagliacci he whips his hand, again & again,
eight, nine, ten times—until you hunch, ogre-ish, over

the fries as though communion were possible only here,
upon this bed of chipped linoleum. But what does he

care, munching the beloved—until something begins
moving within him, & he grimaces & leaps & rushes to

the bathroom, where, bending over the toilet bowl he
stares at what he’s vomited out: nailed, knuckled, & pale:

a mass of wriggling fingers…

The Sprite

The server brings
the Sprite & before
she is halfway turned
from your table
you’ve finished
the Sprite & request
another & within
seconds it too
is gone so she brings
another, then two,
then pitcher & you
do, you drink it straight
from the pitcher
like a mug
of coffee, jug of wine,
a vessel in which
white mums
have been melted,
& yes, of course,
you marry the Sprite,
you walk the aisle,
speak the vows,
lift the veil,
smash the glass,
& lick your love
off the floor…

The Oreos

So simple to be both lovers at ………….the same time one
munching a sleeve of Oreos…………. as the other begs him to stop
one shoving Oreos into his mouth…………. the other floating up
into space one gasping through crumbs…………. the other bellowing
but one’s head is a sugar swamp…………. so the other isn’t heard
while hauled through sleeves of stars…………. entreating the first
to take a break breathe…………………….. but one does not rest
one advances like an ocean……. …… pulling catastrophe
into insatiable tide………………… ….. as the other goes
finally silent ………….…………………………………swallowed up
in the hungry hush ………….………….…………. the plump dark
………….………….………….………….………….………….………….picking its teeth

Jeremy Radin is a poet and actor. His work has appeared (or is forthcoming) in Ploughshares, The Colorado Review, The Journal, Muzzle, Gulf Coast, and elsewhere. He is the author of Slow Dance with Sasquatch (Write Bloody, 2012) and Dear Sal (Not A Cult, 2017). Jeremy Radin lives in Los Angeles where he once sat next to Carly Rae Jepsen in a restaurant.