•  
  • {Click here for PDF version}

    The season of lilacs is monstrous

    The people I like are thorough
    I am not very thorough

    I water my plants with the juices of another
    I’m here for a short time not a good time

    I like women singing
    in different languages

    and clouds
    that cut the sky in half

    weeping willows
    and bushes of lilac

    and the long, firm stamens
    of calla lilies

    It’s not good to live with regrets
    I don’t have many

    I can probably count them
    on one hand

    I regret not getting the ultrasound
    and miscarrying a week later

    All of my favorite things
    resist me

    You can’t milk perfume
    from lilacs

    The season of lilacs is monstrous
    if monstrosity can be defined

    as proportional to beauty
    and inversely proportional

    to the time
    in which that beauty survives

    I feel as though I’ve lost everything
    though I am aware that I lack for nothing

    I play my body like a song
    we’ve all heard before



    Puppet

    Diseases wander to me
    like an unwanted body

    pressed against mine
    hard and masculine
    with that definite end

    I smell like my mother now

    *

    An older man whom I chose
    to abandon

    told me I don’t cum
    like other women

    He confused me
    with his daughter

    which I didn’t mind
    and still don’t

    Since I was a child
    I wanted to be the prettiest puppet

    I remember thinking
    it’s the least I can do

    *

    My beliefs are like me
    weak and limited
    by the flesh encasing them

    I will tell as much of the truth
    as you can handle

    Whatever you say I should never do
    I’ll say I’d never do

    *

    I grew up a cold and quiet animal
    knowing it was advantageous

    I bite hard on the insides
    of my mouth

    Let others see me like a watercolor
    painted with fingers

    Something blurred and formless
    abstracted into silence

    so as not to have to stand for anything
    other than myself

    which I do
    sparingly

    *

    Still there is so much tissue within me
    waiting to be expelled

    like a miscarriage
    like shit

    *

    One day no one will believe
    in a world where I do the right thing

     

    Francesca Kritikos is Editor-in-Chief of SARKA, a journal and publisher focused on works of the flesh. Her poetry has been published in English, French, and Greek and in numerous online and print publications. Her latest book, The season of lilacs is monstrous, is forthcoming from Blush Lit in autumn 2025.

    SHARE
    Previous Post: Four Poems by Augusto Lunel, trans. from Spanish by Michael Martin Shea Next Post: Two Poems by Jane Lewty

    Archives