Leaving the Matinee

Your life becomes the protagonist’s, anyone’s, and the shiny sealed package of story is yours, is slathered all over your shaved calves like sunless tanning cream, and you are walking, marching alone across a bridge into the sunset, really you are, and a dull looking young couple tells you their destination and asks if they’re headed the right way and you say yes and yes again, and the girl-lady says I thought so instead of Thank you so you don’t feel bad for sounding emphatic when really you were unsure. And the light in the west and the lines of planes are making designs on the sky, huge as it ever was, and once you’re safely across the river “Ashes of American Flags” comes on and you shout this city’s name inside your head with private-public glee. What is so funny about peace, love, and understanding—your bare shoulders shove backwards, one then the other, you make it across the bridge as the spring sun sets on the cities layered like lemon cakes inside you, and your secret wish (all my lies are always wishes), your only request, is Trepan me, motherfuckers. Come see what’s inside.





Becca Klaver is a founding editor of the feminist poetry press Switchback Books and a PhD student in Literatures in English at Rutgers University. She is the author of the chapbook Inside a Red Corvette: A 90s Mix Tape (greying ghost press, 2009), and her first full-length collection, LA Liminal, will be published by Kore Press in 2010.

The Other Half

The hex rains down in vials tagged with its antidote: once you sip, the cure is in your hands.

Therapy taught you that much, the common parcel of your affliction and its chemical-chatter prescription.

A breakdown of youishness blends into the mix.

In the lab, ball-and-stick diagrams help the puppy recoup its puppyness and the world its worldliness as someone crusades against erosion and mixed messages.

It is most likely you.

As for us, we apply lotion beachside, nix summer’s plan to fizz out.

Life’s good and so’s the sunny.

We watch a twilit horizon for flip of fish tail, try not to notice the glint of her human half, the mudslide at the end of the zephyr.






Becca Klaver is a founding editor of the feminist poetry press Switchback Books and a PhD student in Literatures in English at Rutgers University. She is the author of the chapbook Inside a Red Corvette: A 90s Mix Tape (greying ghost press, 2009), and her first full-length collection, LA Liminal, will be published by Kore Press in 2010.

California Dreaming

Finally, after all these nights away, a dream coughed up the perfect metaphor: L.A. played on an IMAX screen and I sat in the theater. The control-box voice narrated smog like smog was a monarch butterfly on a filmstrip soundtrack. Thick as cigarette smoke, hyperbolic. A term for every gust. I knew the narrow blue building forcing its way up to the street, but couldn’t remember the intersection. Finally I noticed the screen, understood the image was both near and far. Score another for the dream, for all the places like that, marquees and billboards I can still see rolling by in slow motion in my mind’s car-window frame.  Smug and compassless, left to my own devices, I will never find any of it again. A man in the audience said <em>There are trees beyond there,</em> and although we couldn’t see them, we burrowed our vision like cathode rays, looked hard, and knew it was true. In real life I was living quietly in Chicago and watching lots of foreign films for the first time.






Becca Klaver is a founding editor of the feminist poetry press Switchback Books and a PhD student in Literatures in English at Rutgers University. She is the author of the chapbook Inside a Red Corvette: A 90s Mix Tape (greying ghost press, 2009), and her first full-length collection, LA Liminal, will be published by Kore Press in 2010.