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Student spotlight: a poem by Elizabeth Moser

‘Pretty, Pretty Things’ explores the obsessive side of love

Elizabeth Moser (CAS '09)

Throughout August, BU Today will publish pieces of student scholarship and creative work. Elizabeth Moser (CAS ’09) is an English major from Pennsylvania. Her poem originally appeared in the first issue of Burn Magazine, which can be found throughout the campus. The editors can be contacted at burnmagazine@gmail.com.

 

Pretty, Pretty Things
by Elizabeth Moser

There are times
       When I want
       to fish out your eyeballs
       and use them as earrings.
Hang them like bells or
       christmas balls
       baubles- around my neck,
       the polished stones of your teeth
       shining like precious,
               oh, precious things.
I could,
       So easily,
               weave a net of your hair       
               and tie the rude ropes
               across your vast expressionless
               plane of face
               dice and cross again,
               those lips I’d never touch.
Your fingernails, my guitar picks,
    cartilage, the firm ridge of your nose-
    paper weight or straightedge
    knuckles serve as game-dice
    poker chips, bingo dot, Jenga block-
    Eat You Up
               Whole or Not
               Raw or Soft
               Brewing, broiling toe stew
               hip glue
               waist-drawn carriage
                   of a silent crotch armada.
I’m insulted by your elbows
    so, to door-stops they go.
    Polished bones and alabaster complexion
               are my tools,
    the trade is, I’d say
    the Defense we choose.
    Bone-bleached barricades
    Our mind, traitor, in prison.
    Our heart jailed behind a
                   steel-rimmed ribcage
        What Is Out Must Stay In
And Youth,
    knocking on my door, my sin.
    “Those lips
                   it is those lips I miss
               the sweet hibiscus-jasmine mix
                   of summer.
    “Watch me watch lips
           My silent reminder
           behind the criss-cross strands
           of hair
               braids I bind tight
               keeps you, the longing out

       and me in.