Her Florida Water
for Lucille Ball
If there was some vernal flash of sunset on Beverly Boulevard,
it was caught in the window as the henna-rinsed reflection
of her hair. When asked what she'd like, Lucy says My Florida Water.
Stuff to swill the nights she spent alone, with two kids
in cribs, and the stink of cigars bound to his pillow. Something to sluice
the tang of the other woman—the one who liked to rumba,
whose kiss stained his lips with burgundy. A drink
to fill the pits his teeth left on her chin, to kill
the smell of ink in the court and his ashes under her fingernails.
No, not booze. Nothing to contort her death mask
into a famous ugh. Not the turquoise sparkle of Biscayne either.
Lucy would never face Death with an eyeful of saltwater.
What she wants is her last breath to spin orange and clove
from her neck. She wants to greet Saint Peter with her signature scent.
Wants to give back the tropic blood that made her heart burst.
Scarlet
Randy dances almost every night.
He goes to clubs, downs
rum and Diet, wipes wet
hands on his thighs, then jerks
and grinds. His red bolt
of hair catches glances
from tattooed guys in tank tops.
Randy will take two
in the back room.
Fridays he always heads
to a new guy’s home, buzzed
and horny. The next morning
he wakes without a headache,
leaves without a note,
splits without snatching money
from the guy’s wallet.
Randy never stays. Never invites
anyone back to his place. He tried
that once, woke wrapped
in the arms of a silver
fox. But Silver booked it
from Randy’s bed, slapped him—
backhand—diamond ring
carving a gash in Randy’s left
cheek. Randy knows it’s better
to dance and forget.
It’s better to do it in the dark,
where no one can see the little scar.
Drive the Buck Home
Everything we eat is flesh. I know
the taste of flayed squirrel. I know your teeth.
We share bites of deer heart. We fletch arrows
with goose feathers. We fuck
on beaver skins. If we had
cash for corn, or a need to breathe
the smog of the city, I don’t
think we’d love each other.
It’s one thing to watch two bucks
rut. It’s another to see you slow
at the trigger, silent
as you plug one down.
About the Author:
Brian Czyzyk is a bisexual poet from Northern Lower Michigan who recently earned his bachelor's degree from Northern Michigan University. He is the winner of the 2017 Dan Veach Prize for Younger Poets from Atlanta Review, and was a finalist for The Gateway Review's 2016 Fabulist Flash Fiction Contest. He has work published in or forthcoming from Indiana Review Online, Assaracus, Crab Orchard Review, Up the Staircase Quarterly, and Harpur Palate, among others. He wishes you the best.
Brian is on Twitter: @bczyzykwrites (https://twitter.com/bczyzykwrites)
About All Accounts:
All Accounts and Mixture is an annual online feature celebrating the work of LGBTQ writers and artists. For this series, we seek work from authors who self-identify as "queer," while acknowledging that this designation is subjective and highly personal. Our goal is to provide a forum for writers whose voices might be mis- or underrepresented by the literary mainstream. Submissions open May 18th and run through June 19th. Poetry, prose, visual art, reviews and interviews will all be considered.