Flyover Girl
A wild onion in a red dress
on the Blue Line, en route
to a party where I wallflowered
in place for three hours, while
the whole room revolved around me
as I watched my squad
shed mermaid scales
to become sashimi.
We were nonnative invasive species
from beyond the exurbs: Springfield,
Alpena, Cedar Rapids—weather reports
and high school sports. I loved my sister
misfits, but they weeded
me out for Naperville marriages
to MBAs and tech bros.
In more hostile takeovers,
I saw a man with a hammer
walk a young woman to an ATM
and assured myself he was a handyman−
don’t be a hysterical white lady.
I thought I’d seen the future
projected in the streaky Bean,
the murky Lake, the diamond
skyscraper, but it was some-
thing in my eyes.
Someday
I line my eyes and lips to prep
for Asheville’s golden hour
to suit the set that beams green
and slate blue. B. admires my outfit:
it’s not spring but it’s not winter,
either, and we hold hands on Patton Ave.
when a twitchy unhoused citizen−
clump of dark blond curls,
dull red T‑shirt nods at us and says,
someday I’ll have that. Warmed as if by a sip
of cognac, I smirk, invisibly, then adjust:
I’m past all that, praise god−this kid
could be our son; and B. leans
in to ask what’s he talking ’bout?
and I say, softly, with confidence:
love; and the guy’s still looking,
with the intense eye contact
of a proud but lonely tomcat
and makes prayer hands
toward ours and I put my lips
next to B.’s ear and whisper,
deadpan, or… a fine woman? And B snorts,
and I’m pretty sure he pats me, as I take
the small hit to my solar plexus, glad
enough to have had the presence of mind
to fling that salt over my shoulder, to knock
on the wood that keeps the planet spinning.
Psyche at ORD
There’s a spot at O’Hare—by the escalator to Concourse C
by the Starbucks— where a mysterious waft of cilantro
momentarily disrupts the prevailing scent of jet fuel and coffee
and that’s where I, dragging my carry-on and schlepping
my backpack, see her. Some spokesmodel for an airline credit card,
I assume; she’s that demi-goddess/influencer brand
of shiny. Hey, Julie. Wait—did I drop my ID
again? Then: Jules, JB, GeeGee? Wait. She knows
all my nicknames. How?
I can help you with your issues.
Before I even tell her I have a plane to catch, she says, duh, we all have planes
to catch, which rejoinder she stole from me, I use it −later lying awake in bed−
every time someone tries to jump my line. I know you’re feeling overwhelmed
she says, so I say, duh, we’re at O’Hare; everybody feels overwhelmed.
She leans in. Not me. I used to want to jump off things but it all worked out.
I tell her I’m not that kind of poet, that my worst high school nemesis
once said they didn’t have to worry about me offing myself
over their bullying because I was too chicken.
That’s my point. she says−I was much worse. And look at me now—immortal.
That catches my attention—all the time there ever will be. All that room
for error. So I ask her: what’s the catch? She gives me this gibberish:
trained insects to clean my house
napping rams to steal hairs from
an eagle to fetch a goblet of river waterand
learning how to say no.
Gotta admit that last one hit.
And finally—there it is—
the makeover pitch:
some age-defying ointment
her beauty queen mother
in-law swears by.
Wow, how very unexpected.
~
Julie Benesh is author of the poetry collection Initial Conditions and the chapbook About Time. She has been published in Tin House, Another Chicago Magazine, Florida Review, and other places, and received an Illinois Arts Council Grant. She holds an MFA from Warren Wilson College and a PhD in human and organizational systems.