Rhiannon Thorne grew up in the Bay Area of California, a couple hours north of San Francisco in the wine country, which explains both her obsessive recycling and penchant for wine. She currently lives in Phoenix, Arizona with her body of choice, Jenner, and has recently had work accepted to Gr@wl!x, Surreal Grotesque and Fried Chicken and Coffee. Raquel received her BA in English from Sonoma State University and is also co-editor of the literary publication cahoodaloodaling with fellow poet-in-arms Kate Hammerich.
Four Poems (June, 2012. Issue 37.)
I miss your crooked old women,
proud gusts pressing pedestrians from the sidewalks in rain,
black umbrellas spanning more than half their height,
and the Spanish brats, full of vigor and disregard;
I gave lessons in English and got lessons in swearing
El Retiro, by the drum circle,
a humid sun fainting down through the trees,
the sweet smell of marijuana
and musk of the earth,
I fingered the lion statues left by kings and posed
regal torpor under a sticky sky,
never wanting to wake back up.
My lips perpetually stained from vino rojo
and collecting kisses from foreign men,
to bring back home
for an ache-swollen heart the July I left you, premature,
the heat pressing me from you,
my face red and dilated with need,
the tears I pretended were joy returning home.
To The Editor
To the Editor of (Insert Any and All Literary Magazines Here)
For your consideration, publication, money, adoration of the masses,
I will write whatever you want me
A poem about my mother?
Well hell, I have a handful of those,
if none of them work,
I'm sure something can be arranged.
Or my father?
You've never seen anyone
come up with Daddy issues
If a love poem's more in your publication's vein,
I'm more than elated (titillated,
near orgasm, really) to pry open my pain-or my tender,
you can have whichever you want
on a nice shiny platter.
Too many commas? Surely
that's what my delete key's for.
Really, I'm open to negotiation.
Too few? I can finagle that, too.
What is your desire? Old verbs?
New verbs? I assure you,
I've got words the dictionary hasn't seen.
Have your people
write my people
I have slept with foreign men,
my tongue struggling to shape their names,
little language lessons in shame
I stack them together
like Russian dolls.
There are alphabets they don't teach in school,
They don't tell you there's as many words for elbow
as Eskimos have for snow,
you die old never really knowing
what no means.
I write my unborn children lullabies
there are broken-winged birds
with torn blood feathers
and they coo
I give them jaded rings,
with big cloudy stones
I tell them: don't grow up
grow up knowing everything.
I am combing my hair
and leaving pieces of myself to the wind
zipping by like mossy tumbleweeds,
they become part of Wyoming's rolling tundra
little gifts to a land
may never be