SAINT JULIAN PRESS
Stephanie Kartalopoulos ~ Poet
SLOW FAIL
A monocle, some opera gloves:
the down-turn starts
with these things hidden in a dark spot. Like a dried-flower corsage.
Or a Swiss dancer’s costume. Kept safe from a watchful eye,
or high noon, the nosy landlord. And then the careful cleaning
of the fingertips, a play against the desire to jump
from spot to spot, a quiet formality over the smallest space
there has ever been to wash.
Somewhere there’s the thought
that maybe I am falling out of fashion, a whining
and frailing Cleopatra, a stretch of kohl across the wrong skin,
and not even the lightest thought that this is wrong.
This is not lightning,
this is not the razor-fast.
Instead, a slow-dreaming machine pushing me
through my mad scene, bringing my soprano-pitch
past its breathless height. Eventually a puckered mouth,
a dry tongue,
a salty taste for even the sweetest moment.
A monocle, some opera gloves:
the down-turn starts
with these things hidden in a dark spot. Like a dried-flower corsage.
Or a Swiss dancer’s costume. Kept safe from a watchful eye,
or high noon, the nosy landlord. And then the careful cleaning
of the fingertips, a play against the desire to jump
from spot to spot, a quiet formality over the smallest space
there has ever been to wash.
Somewhere there’s the thought
that maybe I am falling out of fashion, a whining
and frailing Cleopatra, a stretch of kohl across the wrong skin,
and not even the lightest thought that this is wrong.
This is not lightning,
this is not the razor-fast.
Instead, a slow-dreaming machine pushing me
through my mad scene, bringing my soprano-pitch
past its breathless height. Eventually a puckered mouth,
a dry tongue,
a salty taste for even the sweetest moment.