Author: lauren elma frament

lauren elma frament is an aspiring mortician from Manchester, NH. her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Nailed Magazine, Drunk in a Midnight Choir, nin journal, We Will Be Shelter anthology (Write Bloody), & Again I Wait for This to Pull Apart anthology (FreezeRay Press). follow her on tumblr and twitter.

merrimack river, 3:27 am

(031123)

first love / bad love / coca-cola

& cheap rum / full moon / parking

lot / midnight / sidewalk chalk / red

heels / redder lips / lavender / wilting

dahlias / forget-me-nots / no roses here /

closed at sundown / sleepy river / sinking

high-heels / smudged lipstick / eye

of the moon / pale ghosts / rippling skin /

rope swing / noose in the night / moonlight

swim / scum bouquet / scared feet / first

love / bad love / quiet river / coca-cola

& cheap rum / craned necks / howling at the moon

because it can’t say anything            back

answers from the afterlife

if by return,                 you mean walk down the funeral aisle

to the circus of ghosts,           then    yes                  i’m already

marching                    since i found the shoebox of unfamiliar keys

under my bed, i’ve been looking for locks

& there are so many              here                there is no light



at the end of the tunnel                       there isn’t even           a tunnel—

only a witch’s poison             apple     & before you get to her

you must dance           with the beasts          (all       of them)

there’s plenty                         of cheap booze & sun tea

to drink            & strange cars       to ride in



the gas station wine here is                 better                 but it doesn’t taste

like blood                    the broken hearts all sound like typewriters

(letters to runaways)             sound like the pop fizz of cherry coke

           you get what you want             but it’s always             a little

off       (georgia may’s front tooth gap but your teeth              are chipped)



the houses       are built from mason jars       & motorcycle parts

& the guns taste         like sticks & stones                anything

is worth risking           for a taste of the poison                     apple

nothing          is worth risking              for a taste of the gun

but i told saint peter            i’ve waltzed with my demons

                           so many times
 
 
 
                                      i’ve forgotten what a first dance feels like

venice beach, 1:04 PM

(a toast)

to the burglar who gave me something

i didn’t know i needed.  to the first time

walking splinterless on a pier.

to unexpected kindness.  to sharing a bowl

of good kush.  to the laughter bubbling forth

from the belly like champagne after the cork.

to looking into my oldest friend’s eyes.

to the suns i found in them.  to the circle of bodies

drumming in the sand.  to learning my own waltz.

to sprawling beneath a neon sky.

to the line of reaching ears who asked me

how I ended up here.  to ending up here.

to the kind of wind that picked up my dress

           as if holding a wedding gown train.