person Lauren Brazeal, one poem

Lauren Brazeal currently teaches in Dallas. She’s the author of two chapbooks, Zoo for Well-Groomed Eaters (from Dancing Girl Press), and Exuviae (from Horse Less Pess); and her first full-length poetry collection, Gutter, is due from Yes Yes Books in August of 2018. Her individual poems have appeared or are forthcoming in DIAGRAM, Smartish Pace, Verse Daily, Barrelhouse and Forklift, Ohio.


~the following poem was first published in Barrelhouse (2016) and nominated for a Best of the Net award.

~~it also appears in Brazeal’s upcoming collection Gutter (Yes Yes Books, 2018)


To Jennifer Love-Hewitt: I Saw You at Fendi Last Week—I Was the Little Mohawked Squatter Punk Panhandler


RE: Los Angeles County case #24789. Letter was balled up and tied to a padlock, found thrown through the southernmost window at Love-Hewitt estate. Status: Unsolved

Dear Jenny,

                    If I had real access

to the internet I’d follow           and unfollow and refollow you

on twitter,       proving how relentless I can be and


                    I’d unfriend you every night

          on facebook

so you’d wake up

          every corresponding morning

to my sweet smile widening

                    your friend requests.


I’d celebrate each homecoming as though it was my first.


                    Oh Jen, you’d ache

and love           and keep

my slender hands wrist-deep inside you, cradling

your weaker structures. Forget forever

how us girls evolved to cake


          foundation on unsightly ruptures. Never beg

for mercy from a man again;

curl your toes for my forgiving           tongue instead and crack

a little extra space

                    between those legs.


          I’d rip you

from that pretty red Moschino dress,

and hook your thorax on a pin           to keep you

splayed           and still, and posed for action;

like a vulva-colored lady praying

mantis—          I’ll show you other flower-mimic

predators we mutually

          relate to if you let me in


to this big terra-cotta

          house of yours. What did it cost you?


                    I bet, combined,

our scars would trace God’s very spine.

It makes me sick how pitch

          perfectly alike we are: both of us women

—teenyboppers really—

          making origami

of our sex to serve a world drunk,

                    guzzling fragility.


                    Though you’re the one they think about

when they’re settling for me.


You stuck-up bitch I’d love

to show you how it feels

                    to withstand hypodermic teeth;

          be overlooked, replaceable,

dangling just inside the serpent’s reach.           Jenny,


stay the hell away from Fendi.


          Avoid the bench I’ve claimed

as my new country. Don’t play

with me

          down in the dirt or you’ll find shovelfuls

of pinworms up your skirt.


We’re not lover/twins, Love-Hewitt,

          not even friends.

                    But I could be the orphan that you chose.

We’d laugh and eat together           like on the show.

—On set you’ll share vacation pics of us

together on your phone.


I want to hear you say it:


                    without her I’d just be alone.



7 thoughts on “person Lauren Brazeal, one poem

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