These poems take a closer look at violence against women, both physical and psychological. Follow the intersection of fear, identity, and the malleability of the speaker's own experiences of violence enacted on her by men, particularly a past partner. Imagistic and evocative, the poems ask how are we conditioned into living with violence, and how do we move forward?
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Yes, you can access Hot with the Bad Things by Lucia LoTempio in PDF and/or ePUB format, as well as other popular books in Literatura & Poesía americana. We have over one million books available in our catalogue for you to explore.
The man says, Alone on a bus? That’s how a horror movie starts. But it feels more imaginable, tomorrow rather than a screen.
I should be a singed cauterization; removal to pin down this red. Hiding behind the poem is always another poem. And in that one, less blood. Or, a red more seeable and deserved. I don’t know what I deserve anymore. And it’s hard to know when everyone tells me I love myself. And I do. Really.
My friend got on the bus and the driver pleaded, Oh honey, I’d love to see your face. She tells me this belongs in a poem, but I don’t think here is what she meant. The man on TV said, Violence requires no imagination—anyone can shoot a gun. But if the end of the barrel is the furthest distance he could imagine, I’m just not sure.
Listen: if nothing goes to plan, imagine it as bad as possible.
I kept waking after the moment of plunge. Smell thick warm humid dark. A knife to raise on the floor. A quick reach.
It was after the flood of posts—the man murdered the girl and her new lover. I was just a few months gone. I posted a picture too, a sunset posing as sunrise. Red hearts like playing cards.
As if I can play this mirror game. As if she could light through me. As if I am at the quiet swirling center.
Here, it opens with a metal snap. It is teeth put in a swinging hand. Puncture, closeness. In any case, some blood moves in something.
If telling a story is the mark of victory, what does that make me? Maybe power is like language—hard to nail down and relentless; smiling at a man who is waving to someone behind you.
When I write about the girl, I don’t know a way that isn’t obliteration.
The heart is flexible—pure creamed flesh if it flushed out all its blood.
As if I could touch her. And then? There are so many things a touch can be.
[Status Update Upstate]
I go back every few years. Nice kid, aw, he was cute. Cold bloody killer. Anyone know her? No girl is worth this and I know some perfect tens. You know what we need? Knife control. I’m the guy who’s prepared, shoots bad guys when bad things happen. Geneseo a sleepy town? Wake up people. Clean your actions rid your mind of evil
If I’m at the wheel of this semitruck, I’m not opening onto a long stretch of highway—I’m not careening into a meticulously laid brick wall.
I’m a fever with the girl. I’m a fever with the things the man did to her.
In Geneseo there’s a tree smacked with lightning, made lopsided like a children’s book. Splinter sanded down by years of snow; vibration charted like an echo.
Here, a circle bright like lightning, but not blinking. Here, a circle begins at a weapon and can be penetrated.
A baby new to speech has every object named this. Green leaves white with sun, this. Red wrapper crinkling, this. My ring with the big chip, this. Her nose, this. Points and is satisfied.
I have tried to unclasp utterance from the dull edge of the girl’s finger.
My capacity for imaging a violence flexes like a membrane. Like a girl. I would call it red.
When a girl is killed When we say
her murderer as if it’s a sweet
slow burn of possession When the girl
was killed in Geneseo When her ex
killed her When the man killed her
When he stabbed her When he killed
her lover When he killed a man When he
killed himself When
at the memorial When they don’t
mention her When iced
with blame When a girl learns When to keep
herself safe When it’s a matter of yelling Fire
not Help me not Rape not Run
[Status Update Upstate]
Thank you. It’s difficult to process so much grief, confusion, and anger.
Irrelevant. Broken hearts alone don’t drive people. Excuses. Not the first time. I feel distraught over nonsensical posts about words we should or should not use. How about maddening. *rolls eyes* If you’re totally bent on murder/suicide…do the suicide FIRST. Nope, no woman. I don’t know what to say. Only love can do that.
In the bad dream I’m in the room.
In the bad dream the knife is infinite and repeating.
In the bad dream the knife is an instance of his body, another thing to go in and out.
In the bad dream I’m not her but I am watching.
In the bad dream why am I watching
After I heard about the murder, I began to write about the man I loved and what came next. Not a line but a loop.
I loved a man. I loved ●. I don’t know how else to begin. I want to say I was a shadow. I want memory blotted out like a blank space.
