A Boy in the City

S. Yarberry

• Verlag: Deep Vellum Publishing
• Jahr: 2022
• ISBN:
  9781646051793
• Thema: Literature
• Thema: American Poetry

In this debut collection of poetry, the obscure and mundane collide, a fricassee of movement, the cosmopolitan, and intimacy.

A Boy in the City uses poems as pillars to interrupt and excavate an interiority that unfolds and interrogates grim thoughts and intimacy. Yarberry weaves a sexy, glitzy journey through their city, where the speaker can "pose" and "compose" in a "trans way, of course." Clever in its playful allusions to Greek myths, William Blake, and other literary figures, A Boy in the City is a distinct work of joy and liberation that reckons with the language of gender and desire.

But of course, there is a movement—

cum and fog—

revolution without beginning. How does one achieve eternal bliss? By saying: Mr. Mr. in the plainest of language. I occur. A cat meows. I want the heart of a tree when it has been raining. I want a stupendous smugness, and the self— as gentle as concern—

to dispense its terrible truth.

I have sought for a joy without pain,

For a solid without fluctuation.

Why will you die, O Eternals?

Why live in unquenchable burnings?

—from The Book of Urizen by William Blake

THE

HISTORY

In the midst of the night—

you put your lips to the bare

of my back.

When your mouth is agape

it’s the start to a cave,

the shape of an opal—

Inside your mouth

lives something to say, though

you don’t say it. We live this way.

Your hand grabs

at my thigh, my hip. You sleep

and I wake—

I think in the night, before

the blankness takes back over:

Lover this, lover that. Opulent

gossip, circulates, through

the institutional hallway.

I see a crow: crow! I say.

Nobody cares. Which is more

than fine— there’s a note

on my desk, reads: I’d steal a horse

for this. For this? I think.

Good God! Hazard Adams is

droning on about Blake’s

“thoughtless hand” being somehow

mechanic— like the seasons,

the planets. Can the universe

be mechanic? It bothers me.

Anyways, your

thoughtless hand— brushes

across my breast, the breast

I hate. Except you don’t

kill me in this poem— If I am

the fly, then I survive. Survive?

There’s something about me

that is falling fast asleep.

If the universe decides to take me—

I hope it swallows me whole.

LIPS CRASH

WITH LIPS,

INEVITABLE

A modern catastrophe, we are, you and I. Blowing smoke

into the wind, napping on the couch. Rain hits the windows.

I doze in and out. Wet tires on the wet street. I dream

of peaches that hang like lanterns

in the dark. This is what we want: sex, then rest. Sex,

then rest. Anarchy, then composure.

You have another lover, who lives out of state. When she

texts you— I think: Oh nuts! my heart is so breakable. A siren

starts— a fire truck glowing in the storm. Later, we’ll drink beers.

Our friends will wage themselves into the air. I have another love too,

u kno— it’s hard to be alone. It’s hard to be in love two-fold. How bizarre.

Barnacles are dying. How horrible to watch your life

go by and want so much. Those purple mountains, rough—

mouths agape. You wake me up— we kiss.

Ask: What’re we going to do today? What’re we going

to do? My whole life ignites. We’ll do it all. Everything.

CITY-BUILDERS

When your body meets my body

the world goes blank, we build

a new landscape— we call each structure

New New New then Work-In-Progress.

The pastoral lies somewhere beyond

the skyline. We’ve broken sweat.

We call each other “yes, yes” then

“don’t stop” then “don’t leave.”

We have new names, or our names

are new to us again. You pick

beetles and I pick rays to inhabit the city,

safe from extinction and then we play

a real game, where we pick

fallen hairs off one another’s bodies—

who’s who— both dark and in varying

lengths. I don’t have the words

for what we are building. Not exactly.

But the buildings have purpose

even if they’re not all homes.

I am saying this city is untouched, unseen,

or unforeseen. I am saying you to...