Two Poems

Fly Trap
 

From your mattress
in the morning, it
looks like a two-foot
long condom hanging
from a hook, orange,
twirled like taffy
poured from a can,
dotted with its trophies. 

I see it when I wake
to the memory of your fist
against my chest, your hand
open-palmed against my cheek— 
that hasn’t happened yet,
but it’s something you said
last night—maybe,
“I guess I just assumed
you’d be the bottom,”

or,

“You mean if I choked you
during sex it wouldn’t be ok?” 

Sometimes I wish I were a woman
so at least I could say
all men are the same:

wolves. But then, you tell me,
honey, don’t you? You tell me

I’m the woman
and you’re the wolf,

the stallion’s thrust,
the seed, the man.

And I lay here as you snore
watching sun stream past a fly snare,
your sweaty skin stuck to my back
and a bruise blossoming
on the corner of my

affection, a fly
in your trap, a nice
shiksa lady to bring
home to your Jewish

mother. 

                                                                       Said the Spider to the Fly
 

                                                                                          We
                                                                                      stand in
                                                                                  your kitchen.
                                                                                The water boils.
                                                                              A symphony swells
                                                                           from a little black box.
                                                                        “This is the kind of music
                                                                        they play when a vampire
                                                                          bites his pray,” you say.
                                                                              Yes. You are right.
                                                                                 You clutch my
                                                                                   hands, yank,
                                                                                           bite.

Jacob Budenz is a writer, performer, and occasional witch living in Baltimore. He keeps a small journalistic art blog at afflatusarts.tumblr.com.

Two Poems

A Spell to Draw You Near Again
 

Essential oil (tobacco/vanilla),
mint leaves (chew), honey, dress socks,
yellow shirt, three undone buttons, boots,
sharp teeth (caps will do if can’t
file teeth/smile with canine
they never filed down), warm water,
tea (no cream!), sibilance, Latin
(before, during, after—sic itur
ad astra, excelsior), wide eyes,
talk fast, dart gaze around room
(say: I am in awe of everything),
schedule to keep, briskness, bracelets,
a hardback book, black ink, lemon,
irony, don’t want it, question marks,
interest but not much interest,
appreciation for archaeology, or
classical studies, or whatever it is
he has his degree in, gold
nail polish (just on each pinky)
don’t be dismissive, don’t want it,
don’t want it, for God’s sake
don’t let on that you want it
don’t want it and when it comes
to get you you get up and walk the
fuck away, look back once
(as though wistful), and don’t
let the door hit him
on the way out.

Spell for a Coy Lover
 

Lemon grass, vanilla, rose water.
You think you’re out of stories? Try

throwing your underwear at the Moon
when she dresses herself in light
for the second half of the eclipse.

Hollyhock. Maple syrup. Hazelnut.
You think you’re really alone? Try

opening your palm on concrete; trip
on the sidewalk as you run to embrace
the one you rejected the week before.

Cayenne pepper, honey, almond milk.
You think they don’t need you? Try

shutting yourself in a box
with pink and green and turquoise
walls and sleeping until snow falls.

Spring rolls. Egg drop soup. Boxed wine.
If you don’t call him

he will come.

Jacob Budenz is a writer, performer, and occasional witch living in Baltimore. He keeps a small journalistic art blog at afflatusarts.tumblr.com.