Wednesday, February 28, 2024

A Poem through Amy Gerstler: ‘The Marigold Sonnets’

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the back of a woman's head; she's wearing a read wig
Christopher Anderson / Magnum

I.

These days I’ll pay attention to no matter song Spotify has in thoughts.
Concerto for Black Holes and Slime Molds through the Panty Sniffers?
That set of rules is aware of me so smartly! I’ve pitched myself beneath
this magnolia tree, center first, prior to I am getting lobbed anywhere
worse. Not more of grandpa’s crammed marlin obtrusive at me
from the living-room wall, not more robocalls providing
to restructure debt by no means incurred, not more doomscrolling
(for the instant.) I’ve retreated to the bosom of nature,
the place fowl chirps whirr like sticks being fed right into a wooden
chipper and magnolia leaves clatter into my lap like leather-based
wings. Mari has flown off to Mexico. She believes in UFOs.
She desires to be referred to as Marigold now, to go away her unhappy previous
in the back of and bask within the mysteries of intercourse and medication
and panhandling and facet hustles and is that actually so dangerous?

II.

It kind of feels actually dangerous, or no less than alarming to me, despite the fact that
I, too, was once a scorching mess in my twenties, goodbye in the past,
in a unique generation and circumstance. I’m nonetheless a sunken
send riddled with eels. I’ll admit that up entrance.
However, since I’m the usage of Marigold’s travels and travails
as a thinly veiled excuse to blab about myself,
let’s get again to her. Marigold’s nostril runs continuously.
She suffers from bronchial asthma and eczema. She loves animals,
children, psychedelics, and lady bands. We percentage 3
of those 4 loves, since I’ve been diminished through advancing
age to pretending I want booze to hallucinogens.
Within the violent tides of her twenties, Marigold shed
the final of her child fats, then graduated from stumbling
religious seeker to apprentice sensualist. She desires, she desires.

III.

She desires to spit in capitalism’s tea, provoke older,
closely tattooed fellow sensualists (the categories that go away
enamel marks), kick patriarchy within the nut sack, darken
her fingers with purple and ochre dirts of alternative worlds,
be informed 5 languages (however most effective through osmosis) whilst chasing
ninety-nine varieties of buzz and looking to pull loose
from the tar pit of historical past. At her age, one is natural urge.
Existence is a wildfire. So it’s no large sin that her bed room
resembles a spot the place, amongst all their hoardings,
a couple of hoarders simply staged a 24-hour wrestling fit.
I simply fear about her. Like I’ve the fitting, me,
who brims with wrongful convictions all day then tucks
herself into mattress each and every night time with ten crammed animals
and an Ambien sandwich. So what am I looking to say?

IV.

Am I pronouncing, Marigold, that to your makes an attempt to go into
heaven you’re crashing the flawed gates? That I want
you’d to find life-guiding messages somewhere different
than in sidewalk scatters of pollen? Oops, I do
that, now not you. Obviously projection is one in all my sins.
Possibly your choice to get misplaced is a sound reaction
to any decade wherein other people really feel they’re about to be
vaporized day-to-day. It’s a crippling time to be younger.
I need the magnolia to succeed in down its branches
and hug me. My twenties have been a rapturous tantrum
throughout which I aspired to be girl, tiger, and pirate
rolled into one. When I attempt to recall that insanity,
it sort of feels love it by no means actually took place, or as though it did,
to any individual, however I’m now not certain I used to be ever there myself.

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