Margaryta Golovchenko

 

Bruised Teeth
to N/F — I hope this gives you hiccups 

That’s what I call her in my head.
The L-word. Hair the colour of a fire
if it was made into a crayon
and melted. My first. (Technically 

you were but we
will not talk about it
as is the case with most 

illegal things.)
There’s no real reason for this nickname.
This was that kind of time —
photos of cappuccinos followed by fan
castings followed by inspiring quotes
from the latest YA. 

No reason, just pure aesthetic.

My Friend from Faro was my Call Me
By Your Name and red
was still warmer than blue 

(in your case,
maroon). 

There was no awakening —
more like a foghorn blaring somewhere
in the background. A wake-up call
I chose to ignore just like the all-beloved
Gatsby. This was his time and he did
well, built a home in my lonely mind,
convinced me that garb and garnish
can solve any problem. 

Those that remained
could be flicked away by laughing loudly
then crying as if it was an extension of the laugh.
As if the toilet bowl is not the worst mirror.

 


Geologies

To be stuck between
a rock and a hard place assumes
             that the rock does not talk

does not try to convince you
of its soft potential 

its willingness to squeeze
every sharp-toothed
crystal capable of drawing blood
from its unformed mouth 

and kiss it all better. 

This assumption
            has a twin that believes some rocks 

are meant to weight down
in meaning
not in body 

a grounded reality that is only hard
because you are not trying 

because it is all in your head and the medicine
stopped working and you missed the prescription
                                                            train. 

The rock will not tell you it is a rock
will not identify itself 

and it does not have to

the stubbing numb force of a kick
the sign to look for.


 

Orchid

Suggested presentation: framed
in gold and placed inside a pure white room. 

White on white on golden
frilled white — a world suspended in luxury. 

The orchid’s lifecycle cannot compare
to the garden of stocks no fertilizer can match 

with a green not yet seen on the colour wheel.
Its waxy petals hold the secret to immortality 

because lifelessness is another form of suspense.
Suggested care: minimal, performative. 

Enough to convey homeliness
without the weight of attachment.




 

Margaryta Golovchenko (she/her) is first generation Ukrainian settler-immigrant, poet, and critic from Tkaronto/Toronto, Treaty 13 and Williams Treaty territory. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks, with a third forthcoming with Anstruther. Her individual poems have appeared in Channel Magazine, Prairie Fire, deathcap, and Menacing Hedge, among others. She is currently a PhD student in the art history program at the University of Oregon, located on Kalapuya Ilihi, where she studies the representation of human-animal relationships in modern and contemporary art.