Here’s our next poem commemorating National Poetry Month, My Party by Elizabeth Hughey (Poetry Fellow ’08), a melody of Springtime memes: crystal decanters, party shoes, tea sandwiches.
MY PARTY
A girl only gets so many parties.
Did you see my shoes? Did anyone
notice my shoes? I wish I were
drunk. When I shop for friends,
I shop drunk. Will someone get over
here and talk to me? I like sand dollars.
I like black pearls. I tried lipstick
but I could not determine
where the lip ends and the nose
begins. Where’s the cake?
This is not my party anymore.
It is the party’s party. This is
the partiest party in the party party.
Scotch squats in a crystal decanter
like a man in a dress. Even the perfume
eats with pinkies. I want to go home,
because the party has elected,
as a group, without words,
like a herd of moths, to celebrate
something else. Taste buds.
The end of all work. No. For one
moment, one thought bloomed
in each head: nobody wanted
to be someplace else. The men
forgot about the game. The slim
minnow of lust left the bellies of boys.
One woman faced the window
and fit a whole tea sandwich
into her mouth like a bedspread
into the dryer. Even the waiter
slicing the roast carved a thick
piece in the likeness of his father.
Elizabeth Hughey is the author of Sunday Houses the Sunday House. Read Liz’s ArtSake nano-interview.
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