You Can Relax About the Kardashians
Even the wildly popular get forgotten.
Female novelists of the Victorian era--
plump, stiff-haired women named Edwina,
authoresses of twelve, twenty, thirty novels each,
serialized weekly to eager audiences,
the paper, the creator now forgotten,
crushed under the fist of Dickens or
buried in the graveyard of academia.
Even the tenacious get dismissed by history:
grinning, spinning vaudeville acts
traveling long, low-paying paths all the way
to the heaven of black-and-white tv and
the couch that came before Carson.
The B-movie starlets of the 50s, posing on cars
the side-burned stars of the 70s, posing on cars,
the big-haired pop stars of the 80s, writhing on cars,
The space they occupy is not the important one,
not the well-lit front, where love, pain, art, work
come for coffee every day, not the dark corner
reserved for war or towers burning,
but the dusty, empty, middle of mind,
which needs a bridge for the crossing of days.
Look ahead, look behind, but do not look
beneath your feet at the dirt dissolving there.
Ode To the Pawleys Island Publix
To every grocery store I ever visited
with a bathing suit still damp on my ass,
We needed limes.
It was early in the day,
but I had already been in the sun too long.
I hung on the shopping cart
slapping across that sun-cracked parking lot
in my t-shirt and Target flip flops.
Right away, you comforted me,
with a bakery right by the door,
a corner of pillow-y blonde bread.
Your aisles drew me in further,
so wide, cool and full of everything
I didn’t know I needed.
Olives and cookies in equal variety,
Walls of beer, wine in bottles and boxes,
pimento cheese, pizza and pool noodles.
An idea for pie stopped me in my tracks,
made me double-back, almost collide in comic fashion
with another wanderer, a man in surfer shorts
and sunglasses, looking for baby food but carrying beer.
When I leave, one hundred and some dollars later,
my cart so full of canned appetite, boxed and bagged desire
I have to carry the limes in my hand, the bag slippery
between my fingers.
About the author:
Hilary King is a poet and playwright living in Atlanta, Georgia. Her poems have appeared in PANK, Gertrude, Blue Fifth Review, and other publications, while her plays have been produced across the US. She enjoys taking pictures of people taking selfles