H E R M E N E U T I C C H A O S J O U R N A L
L A U R I N D e C H A E
Laurin DeChae is a M.F.A. candidate for poetry at the University of New Orleans, where she acts as the associate editor for Bayou Magazine. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Harpur Palate, Cleaver Magazine, burntdistrict, Rust + Moth & Crack the Spine.
M U T T I N M U L T I P L E
“Here the Dormouse shook itself and began singing in its sleep, “Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle—’ and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop.”
—Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland
The last time I saw you I was cut and spread against backdrops
befitting queens. The last time I saw you I made my ends meet
by curving into a circle. You can’t hit what’s been hollowed.
In this moment I have no idea where I am twinkling.
Who had I been, here before, turned and turned. This is my body
projecting astral against a blue screen. Here I dissolve. Wreck
less leaving. The last time I saw you I was creature, fur and fluff,
but I contain notes emblematic of what is lyrical,
what is epic. Admit you’ve wanted to know what you’re insides
look like cut and spread like a meat platter slices fanned. I have too.
That’s why I pick back the scabs to peek at pink. A great many know
that bright incarnadine like the name pleased to depend upon.
There I go down the rabbit hole in a slipstream of blood muscle, marrow.
Maybe I’ll thread my fingers with tendons pluck stringy tunes
to tap my foot to. to sing the last time I saw you I I
had to admit I know nothing. You must be here proved to resist,
to begin. The universe opens up to me, sprawled on my mouthy
floorboards. No matter what you do they just keep pushing back.
In a time when such broad terms could be construed there is a need
to set limits. On one hand I am transcendent and lasting,
On the other, violent and extremely flammable, a shallow
filled up with imperfect shapes that narrate the light seeping away.
On a personal note, I wish to add my apologies
of remembering this: The last time I saw you, I became
cave. I snatch up the gaps between to inhabit my own blackness
the only way, the only way, the only way I know how.
On a personal note, you were the pulpy constellation
at the bottom of every glass and I haven’t washed them since.
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