Issue 32: Talin Tahajian

Bad Debt

I was mad, but now I am sane

— Cervantes

In Paris, the moon was a pad of butter

and the sky was a room of girls. Oh turn

me over and over again like the sun.

I’m so in love, she told me that morning

as we pulled off the freeway

and took off our shirts. Sorry, what? Cow parsley/

bright ragwort. Pete’s greengages

and grapes on the dash. Yeah, there’s a drought

and the crops won’t grow. Can we pop into Tesco? Wait—

go. Down the footpath that leads

to the back of the old graveyard, the Wye

glistens like a cold

black bull. Press my cheek

against the chapel floor and the stone

whispers back, St Michael

mouthing to us through the glass. What do you mean!

said the devil when I ran. Cut me, baby, grease

the blade. I used to be able

to stomach the dare—red light/

white mare. Watching the storm thrash like a prayer

from the road by the vineyard

and the window upstairs. I remember a sheepfold

with you in it. The godlike

serpent in the hills. I’ll tell you the problem—

I left. Bad debt. It’s true

I wanted Joel to grab

my blueish neck. Remember that New Year’s I kissed your girlfriend

and the whole house spun like an idol. That breakbeat

quickening the rafters. The night I guess I

proposed to you among the clay-dark trees. I’ll tell you

the problem—all this is going to

break my heart. Beneath the great arch bridges

that blink at me slowly, the sirens are singing for someone else

as a houseboat oracle spreads Anju’s cards

and valerian bursts from the walls. In Notting Hill,

we move in together and shoot lots of gear

and he says I swear. What was all that for? asks G. at the dive

where we met, and is answered. I’ve seen

the things boys write about me. At the beginning

of the line, when I thought

you would be the one to save me, my faith was a barren tunnel

and the moon rising over the crag. When I followed you—

yes, followed—to the edge of the knife-

green sea, sweet piece

turning like Jesus inside me. My heart is a muscle

turning like Jesus inside me. I know you know, but

God, my friend, we’re

shot. The clubs are closing.

The girls I loved have children now.

Talin Tahajian is from Massachusetts. Her poems have appeared in The Kenyon Review, Best New Poets, The Rumpus, Copper Nickel, Narrative Magazine, Poetry Magazine, TriQuarterly, Pleiades, West Branch, The Missouri Review, The Drift, Mizna, The Georgia Review, and elsewhere. She’s a PhD student at Yale and an assistant editor of The Yale Review.

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