The moment I saw a pelican devour
BY PAIGE LEWIS
2018 Gregory Djanikian Scholar in Poetry
Previously appeared in Sixth Finch
a seagull—wings swallowing wings—I learned
that a miracle is anything that God forgot
to forbid. So when you tell me that saints
are splintered into bone bits smaller than
the freckles on your wrist and that each speck
is sold to the rich, I know to marvel at this
and not the fact that these same saints are still
wholly intact and fresh-faced in their Plexiglas
tomb displays. We holy our own fragments
when we can—trepanation patients wear their
skull spirals as amulets, mothers frame the dried
foreskin of their firstborn, and I’ve seen you
swirl my name on your tongue like a thirst pebble.
Still, I try to hold on to nothing for fear of being
crushed by what can be taken because sometimes
not even our mouths belong to us. Listen, in
the early 1920s, women were paid to paint radium
onto watch dials so that men wouldn’t have to ask
the time in dark alleys. They were told it was safe,
told to lick their brushes into sharp points. These
women painted their nails, their faces, and judged
whose skin shined brightest. They coated their
teeth so their boyfriends could see their bites
with the lights turned down. The miracle here
is not that these women swallowed light. It’s that,
when their skin dissolved and their jaws fell off,
the Radium Corporation claimed they all died
from syphilis. It’s that you’re telling me about
the dull slivers of dead saints, while these
women are glowing beneath our feet.
Diorama of Ghosts
BY PAIGE LEWIS
2018 Gregory Djanikian Scholar in Poetry
i spent years living with ghosts
strung between my teeth
Like corn silk?
like ghosts
How did they get there?
good hygiene or poor
taste
perhaps a blend
Why keep them?
i was so sad
i would have harbored
anything
Have you earned the right
to say sad?
i dont want to
talk about that
When did they leave?
all at once
they cannonballed
right into a punch bowl
and ruined my best
shirt
Do you know why they left?
when the dust is swept
the broom is stored
behind the door again
Do you miss them?
they made me the delicate
gulper i am today
But do you miss them?
listen the mention
of silence is worse
than the silence itself
Last night I dreamed I made myself
BY PAIGE LEWIS
2018 Gregory Djanikian Scholar in Poetry
Previously appeared in TriQuarterly
your paperweight. This seems
wrong. Seems like a sign that I need
to spend more time on my own, so I
call my friend and drive him to the store
full of overpriced healing stones. I want
the women shopping to know I’m not
with my friend. I want them to know
how great I’m doing with my adventures
in independence. I’m ready to shout,
Look at my healthy new life! But my friend
thinks it’s a bad idea to frighten people
in a place with so many hard throwables.
Would they hurt me? These women
look as if they’d smell like pink magnolias
and violin rosin if I got close enough,
but I won’t. I’m too busy searching for
the stone that best represents me—it’s
not the blue one specked with God bits,
or the ear-shaped obsidian. It’s
not anything polished—and I think
about how hard it is for me to believe
in the first Adam because if Adam
had the power to name everything,
everything would be named Adam.
Then I think, That’s a pretty smart thought.
I don’t say it to my friend. I don’t say it
to the magnolia women. Do they still
count, these hours I’ve spent on my
own, do they still count if I’m saving
all of my shiniest thoughts for you?
