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Practicing Distance
Poetry by Alexis Czencz Belluzzi
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Excerpts
Teenage Boy, Philadelphia, 2004
Downtown Philly. A street I don’t know ‘cause
I’m a tourist and this isn’t the historic district.
Your neck pumps to a hip hop beat, headphones
down around your neck, perfect match to the hair color
that’s probably called ‘blaze’ or ‘fuck red.’ Spiked,
it announces, ‘I’m hip. I’m punk. I’m in my prime.’
You wear eyeliner black and heavy like a theater major,
and a black T-shirt that reads, ‘Loser,’ font blurred.
Is that a band? You look older than eighteen
and there’s a hole the size of Kansas in each ear
I could stick my pinky finger through. I almost
want to say you’re hot in that strange way all
poet boys musician boys and artist boys get girls to think
they’re hot, glum, broody and tortured, according
to the complicated rantings of their journals.
No. You aren’t hot. But you could be if you were
stark raving mad. And an anarchist. An arsonist.
A masochistic, drug-selling, train-hopping,
beautiful atheist boy living in a shitbox apartment
on the corner of some dark alley I’d never see
when I made my weekend visit to the city.
Finding God
Uncle Sidney found God on an acid trip
while walking down the beaches of Long Island.
God spoke to him through spindrift
while waves dragged the sun below the jetty.
I’m still searching, feeling jealous
of his story. I want affirmation. A
booming voice that speaks to me. Give me
Christ talking to Thomas, or Moses
and the burning bush. I’m sick of subtlety.
Everything happens for a reason. Look
at the trials of Job. But what was he thinking
when boils covered him? When crops died,
plagues came, and family members fell
to heaps of dust? Why him? Why anyone?
Why me? What will I learn from living
with panic disorder? Poland syndrome?
I’m not a woman who’s whistled at when
she walks down the street. It’s all right.
I’m not insecure. It’s easy to feel sure
of oneself when, beneath your shirt,
one nipple hangs higher than the other.
The concave space under my armpit
isn’t noticeable, I’m told, even though,
if I flex, it’s the size of a fist. A giant hole.
I’m fine with waking up at night, heart
flinging itself against the inside of my chest—
my murmur is mild. The deformation
of my right hand is a birth uniqueness.
I’m lucky to be restructured. To have
three fingers that work, and not just
stubs. Nubbins. My husband believes
I’m a reincarnation. That I chose this
body to teach myself a lesson. He says
that I’ll keep coming back, same problems,
until I’ve learned. Grown enlightened.
I guess I’d better pay attention, and maybe
start to pray that in my current life
God kindly tells me what the lesson is.
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