Hymenoptera
poetry by Raven Halle
Hymenoptera
Get on your knees for me, the Madonna
of outcasts, the watermeloncholy ghost of sweet
she-blood: half-garden, half-seed, soft-spoken,
as though my hand is touching something fragile. In my
black-beached dreams I’m still kissing you hard
-core, blue oyster spinning, lipgloss on your
ribbons, speaking only in vowels when you’re between
my teeth, and I left my fingers on your staircase, but
the truth is that there is no damned corner on this damned
Earth that I haven’t shattered. This is life with the safety
off—the yellow-colored day when we fought like a waltz—
one, two, three, floor, and I loved you like an apology.
Rinse and repeat. I liked fucking best in the trunk
of a U-Haul because it meant you were already halfway
gone, I told what’s below I liked it on my back because
observation really is a lonely science. Turn me on
and I’m a candle out of context, put roses on your wall
and tell me your apartment breathes spring, and do you
remember the thing I said about water tasting like
its temperature, because it does, but only if your mouth is alive
enough to handle it. The truth is, the tarantula hawk lays
an egg on top of a tarantula, and the egg eventually hatches
and eats the paralyzed spider whole, so I must have been
an insect in another life, because I like to leave my lovers
with limp legs, yes, but something that’ll kill them, too.
Elegy for Malcolm McCormick
poetry by Raven Halle
Elegy for Malcolm McCormick
Composed entirely of words found in Mac Miller’s songs
When somebody told the rubberband wasteland twisting
up your spine that sleep is a cousin to death, you ran to the
underworld, turned raw as an amphibian, a kneecap. You hid your
monsters like dark science, said a little more pain paints the planet
gold, pen spitting small worlds, jawfuls of lovely lullabies, your heart
beating through your clothes, and then—the electric shock
of a chest collapse. And so it goes. The dirt hit your casket like neon lights
on a marquee, your eulogy was like a movie scene: the room
went silent. Everything is strange except for the perfume smoke
of your dreams. You get more peace from wings & slow speeds
and war is a ladder away, a mile above the ceiling, and god damn,
cocaine ether creates strange creatures, a thousand pigeons and
an odyssey of dark souls. Most dope platinum anatomy melting
inside heaven’s eyes. Light a match and break down the ceiling,
pick a bone like a rose and rewrite history’s dirty laundry. Misery
is amnesia when depression’s high heels leave you on the tile
floor, and a thought is currency, but a little taste of silence is divine,
your mind’s one-way ticket to a smorgasbord of hopeless oceans.
Death is a party you sold to your summertime because prayers
are not a common language, so wait for us in the star room
to watch movies with the sound off, front row free of charge, because
memories don’t live like people do, but you should know it took
God more than seven days to get your vinyl
to stop scratching. Oh, Mac, come back to Earth.
Mad Mike Hughes and How I Know the Earth is Flat
poetry by Raven Halle
Mad Mike Hughes and How I Know the Earth is Flat
Because it’s the same story I like to tell myself. Because the first rule
of flat club is you always talk about flat club. Because I take an empirical
approach when it comes to science, meaning I use my senses to gather
information about my surroundings, despite my waning vision. Because
Wertheim argues that theoretical physics softens us in the same way
art and music and poetry do. Because the crust is crunchy and round objects
are hard to fry thoroughly. Because the crunchiest tallest mountain on Earth
is Everest, which is just a rendition of “never rest,” meaning you can’t stop
climbing something that doesn’t exist. Because revolutions only exist
when the Moon and the Sun and the stars and the planets pirouette above us
like a nursery mobile. Because we exist as children in the pancaked eyes
of history. Because Pac-Man theory states that, like Pac-Man, we return
at the side of the Earth opposite from which we disappear, meaning
it’s impossible to fall off, meaning we end each day like a video game
that doesn’t have a “save progress” button. Because, despite this,
I’ve still spilled over the edge. Because 62-year-old flat Earth stuntman
Mad Mike Hughes spilled himself from a homemade rocket for proof
and ended up in the hospital with a broken leg and a horizontal conviction.
Because Mad Mike Hughes is still alive. Because an extra life is only something
you get in a video game. Because there’s no gravity, just universal acceleration,
a singular pulse beating time forward like a shark, meaning that the Earth
is climbing ceaselessly upwards. Because the Earth is a tower of terror
you can’t stop riding. Because towers are just illusions. Because you can’t
trust photos. Because photos are sometimes illusions. Because haven’t you heard
of catfishing. Because we all are full of loaves and fishes. Because the bread
didn’t rise. Because Genesis says God created a firmament to separate the Heavens
from the Earth. Because that firmament is the wind through our ears. Because
on the fifth day God built dark ice walls around the edges to keep the oceans
in place. Because a scritta-paper moon can’t control the tides. Because Samuel
Birley Rowbotham had his friend control a boat down the Old Bedford River and,
six miles later, could still see him through a telescope. Because Atlas
couldn’t have shrugged a sphere from his shoulders. Because I wear
the Earth like a shrug. Because otherwise Earth would be only
a tear-shaped stain on the sleeve of the Universe. Because where
would God put his arms if there were no sleeves.
Raven Halle
Raven Halle is a queer, third-year undergraduate student pursuing a degree in creative writing at Florida State University. They enjoy long walks around the neigborhood with their partner and dog. Find them on Twitter and Instagram at @ravvvve.