my teeth have been extra fragile + useless lately, poetry by Faye Chevalier

Faye Chevalier is a Philadelphia-based poet and essayist. Her work has been featured in the tiny, Peach Mag, Witch Craft MagazineThe Horse Less ReviewBedfellows, and elsewhere. Find her on Twitter at @bratcore

my teeth have been extra fragile + useless lately


the act of speaking of Jessie & PJ’s

tweet-history of

pegging in a           graduate-

level medieval lyrics class; like,

“oh yea, i am way           into the trying-

not-to-be-spite-sexed movement,”

tht lil-cute guise™,


or all-vivisected,

i forget which—


was tagged a canorous dilettante

of bad graces;

“consumption is, like,           so scary”—


& refuse cues too well (“thems bad”), a

perfect casualty-casualty—

like, i want to live trice-wise, but, like

“i keep being broken

by honorary neo-Platonists,”

my torn-up mantra,

petal-ed as if in hopes

of absolution from the

need-need to apologize

to you           for not giving myself up

enough, for feeling like i am giving myself

up           for giving           my(

)self am i

giving is this giving?—


an iPhone app tht will send

you a push notification if i starve myself


so you can come & find me

so you can break my teeth in—


the act of waking unsettled by how the poet Ange

Mlinko situates the poet Juliana Leslie to

the likeness of the poet T.S. Eliot;

bc rather than trying to end the world

(as does our boy, Eliot [the poet]),

Leslie (the poet) embraces & lives out           the fact

tht it is           already



Blaise fell asleep

listening to music

w her door           open—

i tweet “get drunk / go to

bed / wake up / read a bunch of ‘i

love you, it looks like rain’ / go to

bed / wake up / read a bunch of

‘i love you, it looks like ra[in’]”;

“This could be the year”

writes           the poet June Gehringer—

there is literally no difference

between my body & tinder[dot]com

kindling some wall-pressings-for

my dearest           resident           blood-ghost™,

i.e. my newfound razor burns           amend

an already           faded home-having,

& now my           say-what-you-will-s are

either all calcified           or rusted, becoming

the cutest lil object on television, the

ragged roadmaps i swear           i have not

kissed so,           sleep less now;

i promise i will not make a sound—


symmetry-sets, born of noise
{__ think}, for there are

finger tap-ings
__ mouth-wings

__ be the act of immersion itself—

text-kin + in-born

an integration,
a vesper-saying—

__ candid ritual towards eyes-having—

{how bright
thou art}



{names, sheer +
          bright (archive)d
} take ___ under them

in the mud,
          deep + hidden-like
(___ am brought for) the act
          of being taken

{up} under bridges
          where discarded
carts ft flour-
          bundles +

___, fathoming a
living on a

grow green w/ them
in craft,
          in(deed), held

w/ purpose, or ___
          purpose, living w/
less dungeon-al
          thought than one

had thought though
          broken bods ne’er-
-theless, when begun,
          ___ mean, when

found, ___ mean,
          when living ___
mean, when bodied,
          ___ mean,

ft too-cute skeletons
          + ___ death-

          given back to(o)
(soon to) The Lord
          like flotsam

{them names, per
{“found by his wife
          (his pierced body)”}

“spared a rightful
“filled to the
          neck in”

          (so willful)—
am ___ meant
          to live out

bodies of
___ want (?)
          a sheltering

history, ___
-friend {ne’erthe-
          -less solid-

-like} taken under
          them spokes
stripped own

remember when them
          spokes turned,
when them misaligned
mouths +

may thems
          quiet bodies

(___ quiet recours
          of a body
w/ open tracts
          w/ glazed over

limbs whose names
          be these), quiet
norms shattering
          over the mud

under them years,
          quiet bridges
          body, ___


for Ayé Aton

“…when angels are bored at night, they write your nightmares” (Jose Rivera, “Marisol”)

this partition, a satellite-d sex-bot,
an as-a-Marisol’s-guardian-angel,
her heaven now-clothed in photograph

my flightless eyes—
(bright)           artifice—

          for withering

for this is a city of dead murals,           of men
who write of their slave labor
          in their resumes

level-headstones invite
an easier sense of care—

sentient credit-scores
and the act of abjection

(“) at what point
do i become memoriam:

          when my body
          is stricken
          with Nimda?

when (my) departure
reads itself as willing-like? (”)


rivet guns folding-in the eyes of G-d

the act of being born with implants
uplinked already, the act of star-taking

          (salt [or])

the act of threat-being,
the act of skin-searching

“the sex-bot’s
in the architecture
of solution-ness”

another Marisol-death—

grass-stains fill gaps in marble

where the mower-blades begin digging

so to whom goes that Mars-belt?
so to whom goes that unseen yellow star-smear?
so to whom goes my spectacular-demise, non-Earthside et al?

the act of becoming statufied—
the sex-bot as estuary

for these are our new-orbits—
ants filling in holes in the cold stone

          the act of wintering,
          a kinetic-export—

the sex-bot as sanctuary

“carry the other-Marisol(s) all heaven-like,
as many as your seven shoulders can bear”