This Forever

Poetry by Monica Rico | From Issue 27 (Summer 2024)

The thing is this
The yellow roses never truly 
Opened and now don’t know what to do with them
Hang them upside down, a bell of rigor mortis with what scent 
The leaves before the rain, run off of an eraser, smear of vaseline

Ask too much

The thing is this
Call, hold, kiss 
With tongue until the jaw locks
The rain is coming soon

On the way
In the distance
There are voices

Little fruit flies leaping 
From here to the platform of a glass
They prefer wine and red
They say it is better for the skin or was it wing

Paula Abdul washes her face in cold water

The thing is this
Very few people are good dancers
It is OK to not be very good

Listen to the same song, lights on, curtains open
Neighbors pass the windows
Are Leos the fun astrological sign
 
Not just kind of Leo 
But Leo Leo with carnassial  
And never the narwal 
Whose one tooth grows
Through the lip
 
The thing is this 
Paula Abdul could’ve been a narwal 
Her high heeled shoes 
A tiny tap no bigger 
Than the nail holding it in place 

Ice water, black and white, 
The rehearsal of her magic, and shadow
Emerged. Call it tusk. The bones of her knees across the floor.

Monica Rico (she/her)

Monica Rico is the author of Pinion.

Author Note:

I wrote this poem while I was at a writing residency living next to a composer who only played the scales every morning for about five minutes. I kept thinking to myself that at some point the dude would break into song, and he never did. So, I was thinking about music, and what it means to me. I thought about the first artist I truly admired— Paula Abdul. I remembered her biography, The Magic of Paula Abdul: from Straight up to Spell-Bound and the VHS I had of her music videos and dance lessons. I wanted to hear good music again. I missed my husband and decided residencies were not for me.