To Whom It May Concern:
Sierra DeMulder’s collection of poetry (if I can even call it that—it is as sprawling as a teenage dream journal) is not a manuscript. It does not contain any semblance of narrative or structure. It is not, as one might hope, a complex, strategically crafted critique of social constructions like gender or the necessity of pants. Nay, my friend! This collection reeks of the pathetic spoils of juvenile ambition: a young writer “experimenting” with “language” like they are they “first” person to “ever” “write” “poetry” (please insert air quotes). It is as if she taped every mediocre poem she ever wrote to the wall her favorite local bar, took five shots (let’s be honest, probably just one) and drunkenly threw a handful of dull darts or wet chewing gum at the wall. Whatever stuck dictated the “chosen ones” for this collection, which is truly a collection in the sense that it is a pile of meaningless words stacked on top of each other like a horrible game of Jenga that just won’t end. Anyway. Allow me to expound upon the world of DeMulder of poems: small, quaint, but not in the-cute-old-woman-knitting way, more in the all-old-people-are-probably-at-least-a-little-homophobic way. DeMulder uses metaphor like the US government uses institutionalized systems of racism to marginalize minorities: too often. Her attempts to be funny have an uncanny resemblance to a puppy drowning. If her writing were a living arrangement, it would be a studio apartment. If her writing were a body of water, it would be not very deep. While reading this collection, I found myself thinking way too much about sandwiches. Also, I am still debating which would be more painful: reading another sappy poem about another of DeMulder’s exes or actually dating her—apparently, it always ends badly. In short, turn back now. In short, publish this collection and a pox upon your children.
Sincerely and with deepest regrets,
Sierra Demulder favorited my tweet
I have to reblog because this gif is awesome and velociraptastic.
I cannot tell if we are falling out of love
with each other, or, if this is the love
they warned us of: the love that doesn’t
trim its grievances into neat, pleasing
bushes but instead grows itself wild
as the jaguar—raised in captivity—will
realize one day it too is made for blood.
The love that will hack up the wet,
pink carcass of an argument months after
its neck was snapped and swallowed.
The petty love. The selfish love. The love
that will stop apologizing and start
admitting to Sundays spent masturbating
to the thought of other men’s fingers,
the way her head tilts back as she laughs.
- Sierra DeMulder
The first time you took me to your mother’s
grave, we were full of turkey and gravy
and the kind of fruit salad made from Jello.
We were driving home, north, from Iowa—
the tired sigh of the Midwest—and I was
talking aimlessly of the day, of the desserts,
the small talk, lost in the importance
of my own thoughts. I did not expect you
to turn off the narrow road onto the dirt
driveway of the graveyard. The moment
my eyes registered this—the sagging trees,
the stone stumps like scattered teeth, the green
green grass—I started to weep because I knew
this was the moment I would meet your mother
or, at least, where you lost her for the final time,
back to the earth, the farmer’s wife
who bore land and harvest and six sons
all before that last, long winter.
- Sierra DeMulder
One day, if we are lucky, we will look up
from our breakfast cereal and realize
our lives have slowly thinned and lengthened
like dough rolled under our fingers.
Time: that coiling snake. Time: the silent train.
We count the boxcars as it passes us by
and this makes us feel as though
we understand it. One day, if we are lucky,
our skin will emulate hammocks
and find new ways to sway and sag.
Our voices will dry up and sour like wells.
I hope you will still sing to me then.
I hope we find our way together
across this knotted forest of Time:
that strange witness. Time: the faceless
map—I know where I am going but
don’t know what it looks like. One day,
our love will shed its skin for the hundredth
time and look upon each other new
like children. Our lovemaking will be
a royal dance, a séance of the tired,
a ceremony of seasons, constantly reborn
only to wither in your arms.
- Sierra DeMulder