MELISSA JONES FIORI
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Lost in Translation

Writing to the Times, a woman calls it “Middle West”
                                   as if she meant Gatsby or longdrink or yellow.
Rosie says “risers” for bleachers. (Her sisters agree
                                   “how Fredericksburg” this is.) A digression ensues
from the confusion of pens with pins. I am trying
                                   to tell you something but you can’t hear me
for the words. Would it make more sense if I dubbed “A”
                                   patron shade of the Sierra Nevada
or the egg taste of fountain Cokes in Kentucky, made
                                   from sulfur water? My sister turns and tells me
she’s lost more than she ever had.
                                   I write this down.


Suddenly we needed to know about Tuesday. Whose day
                                  was Tuesday? (What happens to the gods
at the end of the day?) If there are so many words
                                  for so few things, why can’t I put a name
to toothpaste with a cigarette chaser,
                                  the ghost space between us? I need you
to say “insensate.” I need to hear it once
                                  aloud.


The facing mirrors in the bathroom at Lisa’s
                                  show 1,000 me’s on the toilet, peeing into infinity. 
And that downbeat of silence before applause
                                  shatters the proscenium: spotlit greasepaint
smelling of black honey and jungle gyms. How I felt
                                  as the eightball englished into the side pocket
with Raoul watching. I’ve seen oak trees
                                  with lacy winter headdresses,
felt the aesthetic bliss of rubber cement
                                  coating my hands. No, it’s not right—
I’m just not getting it.


I am trying to say that I am trying. That I hear the hush
                                  of skin on my skin. I can say “placenta,”
but no one will think of Bryce, empurpled,
                                  fully fingered and toed, coming from
seemingly nowhere. What if I told you
                                  how Ana Bolinda stood in a field on the outskirts
of Brasilia, saying “This is where the coffee beans
                                  take off their jackets.” I was not actually
there, but I write this down. For the record
                                  I am writing this down.