S t e p h a n i e Y o u n g & T a n y a B r o l a s k i
t o l e r a b l e / s w e l lI. that's why everyone is drinking water and nothing added, shy of introductions. she is hot, in this light. however I'm nothing special. I know, I know the trees behind it when I was stuck in traffic, turned around and she was still, looking for a taxi with sunglasses on. no shoeshines for the weak and no bartender. no inscription or fine lines for you for example you've been smudged. here we are with no posse she's got her jacket over her shoulders or call it a wrap, I could never do that, I want her more than I want to be her. I could wiggle but I don't dance, sweet or I did already. get some limes, I'm ready to start, she's hot, a shot, or on ice. your drink interrupted, clacking about and the drink is more delicious than the poem which you can see through, put to sleep. couldn't, even a little, sweeten her: black goes a long way, perhaps we'll all be in it. marvelous text. the redheads keep tricking me and likewise turning on her own oh, I'd like to think so. having been put to sleep, you learned things. what did you expect? belligerent, take a sip now and how to be expressive in public when top hats are funny and evening dress, to die for. I won't fall for that fleeing angels bit, that attention to detail, mother and child. that old sudden hand trick.
II. do it well. dove grey and down a path in profile. a large abstract that overwhelmed: I meant that ending, say it seemed a little artificial, ah, well, it's time for a drink, swell. she's very popular but what is she? art for sure, a fitted jacket thanks to a little book remains, an idea across her intelligent forehead. you'd not get bored in conversation, or a visit to the studio would ravish. I mean ravishing, neither is she interested, saying / goodnight. private like, in a phonebooth. a consistent surface, her voice modulates at the appropriate level but for a smudge when she swallows, smoky and medicinal. I could settle for an angelic interruption up the stairs and otherwise, she's in the corner with a boyfriend who is allowed, he is allowed to move his hand down her back with his eyes set so closely together, I can't stand it. in a synthesis of open doors for example, wandering his eyes down her spine. gestural as in he told her, sutured, his secret. she's got it, there's a name for that. a little piece in two voices and I already hate both, he's got them in his hands. tie me off lady, violet, I'm fragrant. little gun in my throat. it's a mystery why, she's taking a lot of notes, does that scare you? a parallel experience, monogrammed initial that is a bitch, a houseguest. hoary. if you have to be there to be cared for, leaning against the wall if you have to you could lose a lot of things and still get heavy, no longer clear. the smudge goes: she sips succinctly. I recognized that word and smiled sideways. hey, and in the backseat of my car through the deep. an insider secret, a row of bottles you know the name for this, you feel it approaching some numbered edge, call it money if you don't and you don't call. exhaled and sometimes.
Tanya Brolaski received a B.A. in Modern Literature from UC Santa Cruz in 1998 and is currently an MFA candidate at Mills College in Oakland. Her work has appeared in the Red Wheelbarrow and Syllogism 4. She lives in Berkeley. Stephanie Young's work has appeared or is forthcoming in Chasepark, Indiana Review, Mirage Period(ical) and Comet Magazine. She is a MFA candidate at Mills College and poetry editor for 580 Split.