Pain Constellation
The dazzling blue lights of Aquarius
envelop me like gravity, a strength
otherworldly. Bruised skin, an alias
for submission, turns yellow in the length
of time it takes to let go; it’s less than
a light year. The water bearer transfers
weight of flask from left to right hand to man
planet that is my grief, which is not interred
in this space, this now, but in a dead star
that shimmers in the icy telescope
of my mind: a bright supernova scar,
echoing God of War, which tightened rope
around my throat & signaled atomic
collapse. Now, my cloud returns achromic.
Emily Hoover
Pronouns: She/Her
2 Poems
Dearest
Ode to the Deer on the Side of
the Road as America
Death is So Everywhere and So
Entire
For the Woman Who Hugged Me in the Self-Checkout Line at the Grocery Store
She had her own damn cart,
wheeled it into the aisle.
But she didn’t have enough money,
so she sandwiched her body
in between the conveyor belt & the cart
as I imagine she’d done at home,
countless times, trying to close
the door in front of her as he wedged
his hand (or fist) in the crack,
a boundary he didn’t believe
existed between his body & hers.
He scoffed at the cart’s load,
waving his credit card in the air
like some kind of petite flag
you’d find at a parade for heroes—
his voice smashed dishes, her face
a punched hole in the wall.
She stopped loading her Wonder
Bread, her cans of French-style
green beans (or creamed corn),
feeling the eyes on her: the pity
resting between our brows,
the anger stuck between our shoulder
blades. She gazed at the snaking
line around her, & joined
us, the ones who prefer to key
in our own produce codes, bag
our own groceries, curse
at the kiosks that gaslight us,
insisting we place items
in the bagging area though we’ve
already placed those items
in the bagging area. Every one
of us in line took a step back
to invite her to go ahead of us
even though her cart carried
more than fifteen items. We
ended up next to each other,
our kiosks chiming. Her
worry lines, nicotine-stained eyes,
crinkled dollars, bird’s chest,
& shaking hands an echo
of me just months before.
I watched her put what she
couldn’t afford back into the cart,
grocery store employee hovering.
You know, it’s none of my business,
I said, but I left a man who yelled
at me like that, & sometimes it’s hard,
but most of the time, it’s the best
decision I’ve ever made. The exchange
of words stood among us, protracted.
Soundlessly, her small body
softened into mine, & she sighed,
like sliding into a hot bath after
a long day of labor. We held
each other, & I imagined her
remembering this moment, days
from now, weeks from now, years
from now—the memory perhaps
giving her the muscle to close
the door for good. A woman
I met in a bar bathroom once warned
me, while reapplying her lipstick,
to stay away from men who hate
their mothers. Even though it was none
of her business. She eyed the dried tears
on my face. I wish I had listened then.
Emily Hoover (she/her) is a poet, fiction writer, and literary critic based in Las Vegas. Her fiction has most recently appeared in BULL and Gravel, and her poems have been featured in FIVE:2:ONE, Bending Genres, and others. Emily’s book reviews have been published by The Los Angeles Review, Necessary Fiction, Ploughshares blog, The Rupture, and others.