Elaina Whitesell Publishes Poems
Elaina Whitesell recently published poems in New Limestone Review and Aien Buddha Zine. Elaina received her bachelor of arts from the Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins University. She is a third semester student in our MFA program and a poetry editor for Cleaver Magazine. Her work appears in The RavensPerch, New Limestone Review, and Alien Buddha Zine. She is also a musician and part of the band, Magenta Moon.
“To lull us, she plunges / her thick, sticky claws into mushy earth and oil // containers, smears her sweet myths on the walls”
Mother’s Melittology
by Elaina Whitesell
In walks mama with her candle wax drip
fingers and her crunchy, melodic gate,
pouring cream and confectioner’s sugar
into her bitter coffee as she forms a hive
to hold us all. She speaks with her thunder
boom singing and wraps us tightly in the folds
of her loose smock. To lull us, she plunges
her thick, sticky claws into mushy earth and oil
containers, smears her sweet myths on the walls:
now candy murals. Makes it all work, soft as sin.
She tucks along the edges with her fingers and deposits
us in beds she sweated, to keep us stitched in velvet.
From: New Limestone Review
aggressive guru
my uterus shed five weeks
from her memory. spring cleaned her cave, extracted
darkness out the warm trap door. expelled a store
of attractive chemicals through my pores.
random people found feet
carrying them to me, to speak
dumbfounded, in disbelief, unsure what
they actually wanted from me? to open
the door, they figure, and slurp up thank
you’s. i came to safeway for pepperoni
to fill my iron wells, cheese for luxury.
ground down cauliflower crust takes twice
as long to crisp but keeps my skin on ice.
The Gig at Rainbow City
Where else walls so bright blue under black lights
a stegosaurus the size of a long golf cart?
I looked into my orange spotted heart
pulled grains and gave the horny fire dancer some
soda bread. I looked at the enlarged, colorful skull
as I sang the song of silent children. A woman’s
chakras laid on the ground, for the sexy one she
said. Her friend from Southern Oregon. She invited
me to yoga on Wednesdays at St. John’s, only I
can’t remember the time. Her feet looked like
hands. My freshly bleached hair turned into whipped
creamsicle cotton candy. A miniature tea party served
to me next door at the restaurant called Normandie. I keep
forgetting to tell you what exactly is on my mind. I find
myself lost in the details. That’s why it’s good for me
to sing something rehearsed. Though it’s different every time.
wake up, skin suit, let’s get movin’
give them something thick
they can touch like
a faux fur blanket five
dollar bill don’t donate
your trash no one wants
your trash. the man’s face
looked very serious at the press
conference. several foam microphones
rammed in it, different shapes
he wanted to know if feeding all
the children in the world was a real
option. wanted to know if their faces
seemed so old because they had problems—
basic survival problems like scavenging,
re-building, finding clean water—or if
they were his parents reborn younger
than him, to scold him with quicker
tongues, lash him with faster fingers
he lost the green lawns manicured like a haircut
his heart got so heavy it broke the card table.
walmart parking lot spokane washington
tea towel on my head with monk pouring
his hot jazz out our white volvo windows
i lift off into a cloud
to watch all the people
a broomstick dressed up as baseball dad
runs a cart real fast
loaded with tiny adults
posing as children
young middle-aged man with scribble face
plastic bags bulging with microwave
dinners for one dead skull
with lighting through it
covered up with stringy hay hair gathered
in mop top tied in ponytail
someone named geraldine also in the passenger
seat driver inside presumably laughing
like a riot through missing tooth and
cellular phone you come out
with stainless steel coffee grinder and i
float down
to say look at all these beautiful faces of god
From: Aien Buddha Zine