Monica McClure, “First Porn”

Author: Poetry Editor

October 16, 2011

Today, two new poems by Monica McClure.

PROBLEMS OF SPRING

It’s not my fault; the moon is shining through me.
Naturally, the most romantic steps forward

to say he swallowed a daffodil for every lover he’s had.
I can see where they dimple his stomach, I can see

the hardiness of arms, the artless shoveling
he’ll do from night to joyful morning.

To release me will dry his mouth to lemon,
I know, but I need the gaze of a man more than rain.

Another Bacchanalia in April, and I have only
half a body to dance, half to steady a canyon.

Nobody knows how to stay or leave. It’s not my fault,
although the way white blossoms look like hail

when they’re thrashed in a storm—it’s a pity.

FIRST PORN

We had found it in a stack of fragrant hay,
threatening and laminate as stoplights.

The paper fan that unfolded all the sins
of tree bark between legs,

the fleshy stems of flycatchers,
faces strewn with sugar.

They were more than themselves,
inside each other, balloon-chested,

with brassy skin stretched like taffy
over the crinoline, erotic form.

Wonderful how in the dark
their teeth and nails would shine.

It was something to explain hair curling
and makeup, like the carnival that comes

in the night every June
to hammer and chink itself together

thrust by screw.

——

MONICA MCCLURE is originally from the Texas hill country. She is a recent graduate of NYU’s MFA program. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Loaded Bicycle, InDigest, The Adirondack Review and others.

Photo by Angelo Nikolopoulos.