Prick of the Spindle: Poetry: Weber: I Wish You Weren't Such a Paranoid Actress

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© Cynthia Reeser, 2009

I Wish You Weren't Such a Paranoid Actress
By Elizabeth Weber

—thanks to Of Montreal

Catherine, mess with my concepts.
In the blue light, in the confessor,
open your eyes to the ladies of the spread.

The identity I’ve composed
out of novelists is lilting.
Everything loses its legs.

My ears disappear into accidental
dancing. This woman in my chest
is not supposed to happen–

an assassinated Kennedy.
I can’t, I can’t, I can’t
accept you.

Can you touch what I’m saying?

The tawdy mountain stallion
on its water defies the sky
as karma.

I, lion, leap out of my pendant.
Chinese stars, don’t you know,
are falling apart.

Yes I am.

Elizabeth Weber lives in Chicago where she enjoys penguin-watching, long walks to the El, and flirting with statues of Shakespeare. She’s currently pursuing a Master of Arts in Writing and Publishing at DePaul University, and her poetry has recently appeared in Arsenic Lobster, Threshold, North Central Review, and Sein und Werden.