Eszter Takacs
Four Girls
              First girl is the lifespan of a fact,     like pearls
     and the rhythm of a number,
                     say twenty-eight
cut loose in a   dirty black stream
of broken Man. Didn’t survive. Then the second girl. Frame the particulars:
              summer and atmosphere, buoyancy . Boy,          buys
string of                 tongues and blanks.
              Then it’s murder.    Turning tables.      Trigger happiness.
No matter. You can’t pretend a language because its eyes will know
              the difference between dialect and spoken truth.
              Girl three isn’t rain. She buys indoor machinery, sparks easily,
                            and holds a handgun              up to the light.
                                          At the next moon-slip, each turn of the ankle
        becomes                an understanding,
the weight of the    body’s aperture  as it slows and pulls against
        the cork     screw verses of painted salt-grain.
It isn’t   until the Only, then can      the pirouette,      a collapsing of the night,
              a strangling, be fulfilled.   Heat is forgiving
                                                          of languor.
                              Girl four is     of the sun’s weakness.
(Note: The phrase "the lifespan of a fact" in line one of the poem above is taken from the title of a recently-published book by John D'Agata and Jim Fingal.)
Eszter Takacs lives in Los Angeles. She holds a BA in English from Loyola Marymount University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in L.A. Miscellany, The Dirty Napkin, Mixed Fruit, Birdfeast, and others.
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Four Girls
              First girl is the lifespan of a fact,     like pearls
     and the rhythm of a number,
                     say twenty-eight
cut loose in a   dirty black stream
of broken Man. Didn’t survive. Then the second girl. Frame the particulars:
              summer and atmosphere, buoyancy . Boy,          buys
string of                 tongues and blanks.
              Then it’s murder.    Turning tables.      Trigger happiness.
No matter. You can’t pretend a language because its eyes will know
              the difference between dialect and spoken truth.
              Girl three isn’t rain. She buys indoor machinery, sparks easily,
                            and holds a handgun              up to the light.
                                          At the next moon-slip, each turn of the ankle
        becomes                an understanding,
the weight of the    body’s aperture  as it slows and pulls against
        the cork     screw verses of painted salt-grain.
It isn’t   until the Only, then can      the pirouette,      a collapsing of the night,
              a strangling, be fulfilled.   Heat is forgiving
                                                          of languor.
                              Girl four is     of the sun’s weakness.
(Note: The phrase "the lifespan of a fact" in line one of the poem above is taken from the title of a recently-published book by John D'Agata and Jim Fingal.)
Eszter Takacs lives in Los Angeles. She holds a BA in English from Loyola Marymount University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in L.A. Miscellany, The Dirty Napkin, Mixed Fruit, Birdfeast, and others.
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