issue three / reverie
STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS
Wanda Deglane
an abecedarian after Adrienne Novy
an aerial view of jewel-throated gardens and / baby’s breath bent into a dainty wreath / crowded
arena and lacy tights / downing the last of my smirnoff ice and dancing like Tina Belcher / Emily
presses her forehead against mine, makes a / funny face until we both break into / giggles, and don’t
you know how much I / hate to be smothered, hate to be left alone / “Ivy” by Frank Ocean the
whole way to yours / just like in high school, singing, We’ll never be those / kids again, Hanna’s face /
luminescent under blazing purples and / magentas and I swear I / never knew what that feeling was,
I just want it back. the cosmic girl said my aura is soft, peachy / orange, but it splutters like bad
connection / pops in and out of place like strange bone, and if I waited for the world to finally be /
quiet, I’d die waiting with moss blanketing all my major organs / repentant, remorseful, I run until
my lungs split / scraped palms and a mouth full of dirt / tides of nectar, all strawberry-stained, my
hands / unearthing baby snails in the backyard, and what can I say? I love pretty things and /
vanishing into thin air and / wasting away all my gifted child potential / Xavier strokes all the
self-hatred from my hair / yesterday’s foot is still on my throat, but I dig it a fresh new grave, adorn
it with / zinnias.
an aerial view of jewel-throated gardens and / baby’s breath bent into a dainty wreath / crowded
arena and lacy tights / downing the last of my smirnoff ice and dancing like Tina Belcher / Emily
presses her forehead against mine, makes a / funny face until we both break into / giggles, and don’t
you know how much I / hate to be smothered, hate to be left alone / “Ivy” by Frank Ocean the
whole way to yours / just like in high school, singing, We’ll never be those / kids again, Hanna’s face /
luminescent under blazing purples and / magentas and I swear I / never knew what that feeling was,
I just want it back. the cosmic girl said my aura is soft, peachy / orange, but it splutters like bad
connection / pops in and out of place like strange bone, and if I waited for the world to finally be /
quiet, I’d die waiting with moss blanketing all my major organs / repentant, remorseful, I run until
my lungs split / scraped palms and a mouth full of dirt / tides of nectar, all strawberry-stained, my
hands / unearthing baby snails in the backyard, and what can I say? I love pretty things and /
vanishing into thin air and / wasting away all my gifted child potential / Xavier strokes all the
self-hatred from my hair / yesterday’s foot is still on my throat, but I dig it a fresh new grave, adorn
it with / zinnias.
issue three / reverie
birth of a poetess
Wanda Deglane
Sappho, I must tell you my story. Let me set
the scene: I was 16 and naive and buried
in seashells of my own making. I knew
that there were men who loved men and
women who loved women. I just didn’t think
it was something I could be. I saw Moonlight
with my parents and my father seethed,
That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen. I always
thought I only had room in my heart
for boys. All my love for girls was birthed
in secret, was drowned in its sleep in
my bathtub. I didn’t know what it was,
I just knew there was something deeply,
horribly wrong with me. I just knew
I couldn’t stare it in the face. I was 16 and
every boy I had ever loved was unbearably
cruel. My heart in a sling, My eyes eclipsed
by emeralds and ink-black obsidian. Then
I saw her playing guitar sitting in grass lush
as velvet. Sappho, I saw a girl and said
to myself, Oh fuck. I’m ruined. Her eyes like stars
trapped in honeyed amber. Her hair is softness,
her silken skin blessed by the moon. Sappho,
I think I died when I met her. I think
I woke up in a new body, one pulverized
by yearning. I want to lay in her lap while she
reads to me of poetesses and philosophers.
I want to lick the salt off her lips. I want to
write songs laced with violets in her honor.
O Sappho, the tenth muse, the human
embodiment of longing, I can ignore
my heart no longer. She smiles at me
and it rips me in two. She speaks my name
and I awake woozy and confused days later.
My body bewitched by sunlight. Is this what
you felt when you flew from those cliffs? I think
she could pull the dead bird from my throat.
I think I could kiss her eyelashes in hell.
the scene: I was 16 and naive and buried
in seashells of my own making. I knew
that there were men who loved men and
women who loved women. I just didn’t think
it was something I could be. I saw Moonlight
with my parents and my father seethed,
That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen. I always
thought I only had room in my heart
for boys. All my love for girls was birthed
in secret, was drowned in its sleep in
my bathtub. I didn’t know what it was,
I just knew there was something deeply,
horribly wrong with me. I just knew
I couldn’t stare it in the face. I was 16 and
every boy I had ever loved was unbearably
cruel. My heart in a sling, My eyes eclipsed
by emeralds and ink-black obsidian. Then
I saw her playing guitar sitting in grass lush
as velvet. Sappho, I saw a girl and said
to myself, Oh fuck. I’m ruined. Her eyes like stars
trapped in honeyed amber. Her hair is softness,
her silken skin blessed by the moon. Sappho,
I think I died when I met her. I think
I woke up in a new body, one pulverized
by yearning. I want to lay in her lap while she
reads to me of poetesses and philosophers.
I want to lick the salt off her lips. I want to
write songs laced with violets in her honor.
O Sappho, the tenth muse, the human
embodiment of longing, I can ignore
my heart no longer. She smiles at me
and it rips me in two. She speaks my name
and I awake woozy and confused days later.
My body bewitched by sunlight. Is this what
you felt when you flew from those cliffs? I think
she could pull the dead bird from my throat.
I think I could kiss her eyelashes in hell.
Wanda Deglane is a poet and therapist from Glendale, Arizona. She is the author of Melancholia (VA Press, 2021) and other books.