Two Poems

June 1, 2019

Inheritance

 

I’m curled up against him in a photograph.  

We’re sprawled by the lake

on flagstones I still walk across every summer,

two empty plastic cups with little straws

and his Marlboro Reds in the foreground,  

crab apple tree in the background,

no leaves and the grass not looking summer

but I can’t tell if it’s spring or if it’s fall,

the green is so washed out.  

 

Now I can make a picture look just like this

on my iPhone with the push of a button –

the filter is called 1977 on Instagram.  

In other apps it’s just Faded or Nostalgia  

but this, this is the “real deal,” as they say -

him in his jeans and beaten up leather boots,

me in my cords and sneaks.

 

I knew girls in high school who got licked

and pawed for their daddy’s money

but it’s the suicidals who are drawn to me.

They come, iron filaments lining up for a magnet,

and then I know that’s what Dad left me -

a gunmetal taste in the mouth

they all seem to want to kiss.

**
 

Here’s How

 

Here’s how you know you’re old.
You see a boy and you just want to suck his dick.
You don’t want him to fuck you.
You just want to suck him like a vampire.
The sweet, clean-cut, college boys
who smell like shaved pencils
and fresh cut grass and maybe beer.
Not the ones you liked in college,
the older boys, the scrawny boys,
the tattooed troubled boys,
the grad student with the, ahem, goatee.
Noooo, oh forget those boys.
It’s the smooth boys now,
the Mormon blond boys
that get you off, polite smiles,

button downs and blazers.
You think of all the stoned surfer boys
peeling off their wet suits in front of you
for four years in Santa Cruz
and you can’t believe you once
found them boring because they didn’t read Nietzsche
or whatever shit you were into at the time.
Instead, you “made love” on a futon with an English major

who played Bach sonatas and jazz
and spoke Spanish, and Hebrew,
and talked of the paradigm shift.
Noooo, oh forget those boys.
These days, I want to reach my wedding-ringed,

well-manicured hand five hundred miles up
California’s Route 1 and back twenty years.
I’d give my plump apple cheek a smack
for not rolling, licking, sucking, and fucking
all those fine boys coming out of the water
like seals, strong, smooth, salty and wet.

Liz Tynes Netto is a lapsed journalist, documentary filmmaker, and resident of Los Angeles. Her poems have appeared in The West Trestle Review, The Mas Tequila Review, The Lummox and others. A current MFA candidate at Antioch University, Los Angeles in Fiction, she is writing a novel.

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