Devil in a Blue DressBy Nancy Flynn
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The poem Devil in a Blue Dress was originally published in Phantom Kangaroo.
She's blue
the I that turned into this
you. This I, an I-
oh, you.
Easier to ad
-dress, to dis/appear
in a dress.
Simpler
to split the atom
-ized or (even) the atomizer of your/my
choice perfume.
You, on the other
hand, back
-ward leaning, lured
memories, stick your
tongue out--who has the upper
hand? Hear.
*
Here.
Your eyes
used to be blue. Envied, shift
to green. The crystal gaze would say
impure. The bluest ai
yi yi, do stet away--
the Is the yous
the eyes the ewes
the poet Ai the use.
*
I
am speaking to
the you,
the one I ceded my
lost/last voice,
I--
better entrusted to you?
You with that loveliest
oo & leading, yielding
Y. Of the why versus
I don't like the way a mouth must
shape, grimace
the I, more ai yi yi
this I
this I used
this I used to want,
crave see,
be seen--the eye beheld,
others who'd cast the
eye you/I, me
up.
But now I've turned to
you, historic
you who used to
do/be that,
a cardboard cut,
scissors in a
hand.
No more the I, the in & out
a door, that skeleton key,
the glassed-in porch.
Where you sat.
Where I watched.
Where we cleaved to split.
Where we shed, we
left, two
skins. Excused from
chatter, blast/bombast.
The tried & trying,
true. Tired now?
It's true.
*
I have been teaching myself to want.
You have been wondering if it would stick.
The riddle outside her
blind, my blinds, your bind, the long
un/winding road.
A self that's split & I who eyes about
the world, first person claimed but (still) thinking
you. You that's the eye
seen third and, I
who wisely took the seat in
back, set out to watch
this reconnoitered
you, that you who did it--
risky
stumbling
fell.
Her solo path.
Yours, too. The wringing out of
words do ring, mere
hands do script & fail
me
too & erase
you.
*
The bluest eye
The bluest I
The bluest you who blew
in blustery & blessed,
a blister on the bruise that's you,
my shins, her high high
shoes.
The eye/I is an unreliable, an
oracle, the I is a
dunce & a stumble, a
butcher baker candlestick
maker, rapscallion thief. The I is a pole with
hat & shoes. You, oh you, the you is a
woo. The ewe is a world in curled-right wool.
Life is a short eye/short I
blink.
For O, she's
blue the I that's
turned,
turned into this:
this,
you.
the I that turned into this
you. This I, an I-
oh, you.
Easier to ad
-dress, to dis/appear
in a dress.
Simpler
to split the atom
-ized or (even) the atomizer of your/my
choice perfume.
You, on the other
hand, back
-ward leaning, lured
memories, stick your
tongue out--who has the upper
hand? Hear.
*
Here.
Your eyes
used to be blue. Envied, shift
to green. The crystal gaze would say
impure. The bluest ai
yi yi, do stet away--
the Is the yous
the eyes the ewes
the poet Ai the use.
*
I
am speaking to
the you,
the one I ceded my
lost/last voice,
I--
better entrusted to you?
You with that loveliest
oo & leading, yielding
Y. Of the why versus
I don't like the way a mouth must
shape, grimace
the I, more ai yi yi
this I
this I used
this I used to want,
crave see,
be seen--the eye beheld,
others who'd cast the
eye you/I, me
up.
But now I've turned to
you, historic
you who used to
do/be that,
a cardboard cut,
scissors in a
hand.
No more the I, the in & out
a door, that skeleton key,
the glassed-in porch.
Where you sat.
Where I watched.
Where we cleaved to split.
Where we shed, we
left, two
skins. Excused from
chatter, blast/bombast.
The tried & trying,
true. Tired now?
It's true.
*
I have been teaching myself to want.
You have been wondering if it would stick.
The riddle outside her
blind, my blinds, your bind, the long
un/winding road.
A self that's split & I who eyes about
the world, first person claimed but (still) thinking
you. You that's the eye
seen third and, I
who wisely took the seat in
back, set out to watch
this reconnoitered
you, that you who did it--
risky
stumbling
fell.
Her solo path.
Yours, too. The wringing out of
words do ring, mere
hands do script & fail
me
too & erase
you.
*
The bluest eye
The bluest I
The bluest you who blew
in blustery & blessed,
a blister on the bruise that's you,
my shins, her high high
shoes.
The eye/I is an unreliable, an
oracle, the I is a
dunce & a stumble, a
butcher baker candlestick
maker, rapscallion thief. The I is a pole with
hat & shoes. You, oh you, the you is a
woo. The ewe is a world in curled-right wool.
Life is a short eye/short I
blink.
For O, she's
blue the I that's
turned,
turned into this:
this,
you.
Nancy Flynn grew up on the Susquehanna River in northeastern Pennsylvania, spent many years on a downtown creek in Ithaca, New York, and now lives near the mighty Columbia in Portland, Oregon. She attended Oberlin College, Cornell University, and has an M.A. in English from SUNY/ Binghamton. Her writing has received an Oregon Literary Fellowship and the James Jones First Novel Fellowship. Poetry chapbooks include The Hours of Us (2007) and Eternity a Coal’s Throw (2012); her book-length collection, Every Door Recklessly Ajar, was published by Cayuga Lake Books in June 2015. Her website is www.nancyflynn.com.