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Sex it sells and sold me sideways, Devil
me care, the last crass
crawling inappropriate school-girl crush—
a gas in the vernacular note. Li’l
boy drawn balding & big-eyed Charlie Brown.
How he wah-wah-wah
wondered: will you go with me, check / yes- wah:
maybe yes- wah / please don’t check no. Alone,
he left me all alone. He sucks, I don’t
like him, I don’t like
too tall / four square, small / steps & tree / tops, like
Will or, tag / -you’re-it, Roy / Rogers. I want
to love him / do, and God, it’s me, Stacy.
Do you hear me? Third grade, last week, thirty.
Stacy Kidd is author of the chapbooks A man in a boat in the summer and About Birds. She lives in Salt Lake City.
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Poetry
in your carpeted office you lay my life down / and say open up to that small room in my sternum.
In his new book, the former Fed chair cuts through economic orthodoxy on central banking. But he fails to reckon deeply with its political consequences.
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