XOXO

X

Noli me tangere. Lushly reading
omens on the blacktop, breathing

lushly. Yet. No rain for months.
Should I make this ecological?

If I mourn for more than you,
does my mourning mean more than you?

O

Backhanded hydrangea.
Noli me tangere. Noli me tangere.

. . .

I don’t remember Berlin in the 80s. I remember
the memories of others. In the hostel that night,
we had 4 euro wine and a sink to ourselves.

. . .

Should I make this ontological?

X

Kokoschka loved Alma’s swanskin
effigy, or Alma, maybe: a swan effigy
in womanskin. The strangest empires

cast strange shadows. Reno, without end,
recounting the Mayerling Incident
to anyone who touched my arm.

I might never change. In bars,
I have a way with nothing. I wanted
the snow. It was desolate, formal.

O

Should I make this theological? We have this world.

A friend shares an image: all summer she was reading Auden
in the apartments behind the Bi-Mart.

X

Auden dies in Vienna. It all returns to snow. Dancing
horses, like snow. About suffering they were never wrong.

O

I did think of Augustine when I wrote pears.
Some images need no ornament: pears,

skin, underwater.

X

Casino

parking-lot carwash ennui;
we could see ourselves in the entrails

of soap. We could see ourselves
in anything, almost. That’s a mode

of critique. Sleek-faced, the screen women,
sleet in the heat, still, yet. Haunting

strange veneers, you know, clicking. Eyes,
saran-wrap, sad. I could look forever.

I could look forever. I love
Cassandras. Athleisure taut. Tequila shots &

one always, one always: like .
(I keep crying at noon when you’re gone.)

O

A little wholesome
content. Soft montage.
Agency: to be self-

tanned. Hide
& Seek seduction
in the garden (postcoital

house in Malibu). Brief
dresses. Lacquered
leg-skin. Skinless

chicken breast
you can look at, only,
but plated, well,

like angels.

X

By nature men desire the beautiful.

For those who express an interest in bestiality
the most commonly pursued animals are horses.

I am in love with the architectural features of the woman crying
baby there’s no plane.

Each night I look forward to watching her while the medication takes effect.

O

I dream of you and a swimming pool, blue,
blue raspberry blue. Your slick stomach,

gasoline.

____
Alisha Dietzman lives in Oregon. Her book Sweet Movie is available from Beacon Press. These poems are from her manuscript-in-progress, XOXO, which was selected by Cynthia Cruz for the Poetry Society of America’s Alice Fay Di Castagnola Award​.