Poetry and Fashion
Albion’s Boutique, Sherman Oaks
Photographs of fashion from Albion’s Boutique in Sherman Oaks accompany the poetry below. Models Young Madison and Missy were photographed by Cindy Beal.
Door Into Summer
by Kiva Jaye Catalina
Oh children—
I hear a summer’s (yeah) sweaty
whisper in the shadows
of my bedroom,
lingering deep into the early
morning darkness,
breathing slow and steady
next to my damp pillow.
I hear the filmy ghosts
of summer moaning
low and strong beneath the covers
and I can taste their tears
against my lips
as I cry out in my sleep,
tossing my sheets to the floor
in bitter frustration.
I hear their voices in my brain
like some psycho schizoid choir,
chanting, humming, screaming,
bleeding sound into the summer rain
and fading only when some
gentle lips interrupt
the endless shouting
by covering my mouth
and shooting me in the head
with a silencer tongue.
I hear sweet
and piercing melodies with
my moist flesh pressed against
the mirror inside me.
I want to swallow that sound,
I want to inhale that noise,
the clatter and rumble
of those words like
broken masonry falling on my
crumbling skull.
I want to open the door into summer
and impale myself on the sun,
throw my body worn onto the sand
and roll in the gritty tide.
I want to be gulted by lightning,
and stabbed by thunder,
struck dumb with love
and shattered by lust
I want to suck the summer
straw dry, slurping up every drop
of holy perspiration
until Autumn turns to meet me with
her implacable velvet breasts.
So Whaddya Want From Me?
by Renee NaPier Bartlett
i am a woman
and though i’m not young
i was once
a real beauty
sweet and funny
and shy and brave
now i twitch
and lumber and wheeze
recalling cat-calls
i (never really) hated
well—so i still
get the occasional
indifferent and cynical
as common to me now
as the pliable lines
beneath my eyes
on a bad day
when i didn’t care
the night before
see—i can still see
all that youthful beauty
except when i look
in the mirror
i wish you could see
what’s here inside me
you tend to focus
on the lines
of the face, of the body
to tally the score
of this woman
no longer young
in that body
but forever young
in her heart
if i gave a shit
i’d be pissed
Lake Hollywood
by Saint Teresa Stone
(for Rafael)
He got your number from a
bunny with teeth,
she said he lost it
but found it when he was
asleep
in the round, gleaming sun
thick clouds overlapping
with fire and light all
around
shivering, crying
reckless laughter
dogs bounding
rocks flying
over bridges, lakes,
mountains
until the sun dips and
breaks the moon
shining pink, and gold
then blue translucent
over an emerald lake
looking over lake hollywood
with you
hiding away from the fires
and spray paint
licking wounds
chasing trails that lead to
deer
and tails wagging