Lauren Badillo Milici | April 2024 – – Poetry Is Currency
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Poems
2 Poems (Lauren Badillo Milici)
Let’s turn our attention back to the lovers—
naked, on the back of a Harley.
Fresh from my body and onto your plate.
The lady will have a bowl of gin, no ice.
I wonder, who owns that moon?
Woman like that, make you forget about Hiroshima.
All you have to be is quiet and willing.
I don’t live there anymore, but it’s where I’m going to die.
* This poem is composed entirely of quotes from The Kids in the Hall, seasons 1-5
WHEN YOU GROW UP, YOUR HEART DIES
You know this better than I do—th
naked, on the back of a Harley.
Fresh from my body and onto your plate.
The lady will have a bowl of gin, no ice.
I wonder, who owns that moon?
Woman like that, make you forget about Hiroshima.
All you have to be is quiet and willing.
I don’t live there anymore, but it’s where I’m going to die.
* This poem is composed entirely of quotes from The Kids in the Hall, seasons 1-5
WHEN YOU GROW UP, YOUR HEART DIES
You know this better than I do—th
Artist's Depiction Of Marilyn Monroe Crying
Once, there was a girl who became
woman too fast, went peroxide blonde
in a kitchen sink, kissed lipstick red
across the collarbones of every man
in Los Angeles. No one ever asked
for this: draft of the script
where Norma Jean undoes herself, ear
pressed to the phone, listening for a sign.
Enter the smiling mortician & how
can you cut into something silk-woven,
so soft to the touch? We all wanted our own slice
of flesh, amber bottle of barbiturates. Not
your baby, but everybody’s. Th
woman too fast, went peroxide blonde
in a kitchen sink, kissed lipstick red
across the collarbones of every man
in Los Angeles. No one ever asked
for this: draft of the script
where Norma Jean undoes herself, ear
pressed to the phone, listening for a sign.
Enter the smiling mortician & how
can you cut into something silk-woven,
so soft to the touch? We all wanted our own slice
of flesh, amber bottle of barbiturates. Not
your baby, but everybody’s. Th
Lauren Badillo Milici "On the Last Good Night" — THE SHORE
On the Last Good Night
before you left & I left
and the mountains soured everything—
rain came down on that weird little hill
where your father built a house
and I, the last good woman, proof of myth,
carried you off to bed, of course.
god sent a flood, you said.
then a plague, then a fire. sins and all that. apples.
do you know it? I only know what you never
told me: how the body must starve before
it’s small enough to take
the shape of leaving.
Lauren Badillo
before you left & I left
and the mountains soured everything—
rain came down on that weird little hill
where your father built a house
and I, the last good woman, proof of myth,
carried you off to bed, of course.
god sent a flood, you said.
then a plague, then a fire. sins and all that. apples.
do you know it? I only know what you never
told me: how the body must starve before
it’s small enough to take
the shape of leaving.
Lauren Badillo
“I WISH THE SOFT ANIMAL OF MY BODY WOULD SHUT THE FUCK UP” — CLOVES Literary
meanwhile the men whose love i do not need
are free. the world goes on and on
and on. i can’t tell you about despair
but there are thorns
where there shouldn’t be—
the body doesn’t always want.
when the heat chokes what’s left
of spring, god will send a flood.
don’t repent. do not ask
for a miracle. whoever you are,
harsh and lonely, is headed home
again. wait for the fireflies—
a soft glow, a swarm.
you do not have
to be good.
don’t.
are free. the world goes on and on
and on. i can’t tell you about despair
but there are thorns
where there shouldn’t be—
the body doesn’t always want.
when the heat chokes what’s left
of spring, god will send a flood.
don’t repent. do not ask
for a miracle. whoever you are,
harsh and lonely, is headed home
again. wait for the fireflies—
a soft glow, a swarm.
you do not have
to be good.
don’t.
I Think Burt Reynolds is the Kind of Guy Who Keeps the Lights On by Lauren Badillo Milici
tonight the sky is purple-yellow fire
& I’ve spent the day in bed.
sometimes I want a motel scene
starring coke on the dresser
or a gun in my hand.
I want the fairytale.
once I was drunk in the back of a cab
& a song came on the radio
that made me miss my mother.
I’m not too good at this anymore.
sometimes when a man says
I want to pin you
he means, to the wall
mounted like a prized buck.
we can talk about anything you want,
as long as you’re naked.
well I’m not,
& I’ve spent the day in bed.
sometimes I want a motel scene
starring coke on the dresser
or a gun in my hand.
I want the fairytale.
once I was drunk in the back of a cab
& a song came on the radio
that made me miss my mother.
I’m not too good at this anymore.
sometimes when a man says
I want to pin you
he means, to the wall
mounted like a prized buck.
we can talk about anything you want,
as long as you’re naked.
well I’m not,
Love Poem In Spite of Everything
Sometimes My Arms Bend Back
Valentines: Poems by Lauren Badillo Milici
this is the good kind of cliché
where the boy is the only youngblondething
left in town & he’s lonely / the way God was lonely
when He made fucking everything
even the front lawn in West Virginia / littered with cigarettes like petals
and he needs to be
the kid who comes
& kisses the first girl he sees
as if his heart isn’t already the shape / of a permanent fist
but whatever you want, I’ll be
& isn’t this the part in the movie
where the boy drunk-stumbles home / and says, I’m sorry,
where the boy is the only youngblondething
left in town & he’s lonely / the way God was lonely
when He made fucking everything
even the front lawn in West Virginia / littered with cigarettes like petals
and he needs to be
the kid who comes
& kisses the first girl he sees
as if his heart isn’t already the shape / of a permanent fist
but whatever you want, I’ll be
& isn’t this the part in the movie
where the boy drunk-stumbles home / and says, I’m sorry,
3 Poems
When James Enters the House in the Blair Witch (2016)
Remember When I Cried in That Church We Found?
It Only Took A Whisper
Lauren Badillo Milici is a Jersey-born, Florida-raised poet and writer currently based in West Virginia. When she isn’t crafting sad poems about sex, she’s either writing or shouting into the void about film, TV, and all things pop culture. Find her @motelsiren. Nicole Rifkin is a Canadian American Illustrator. See more work at nicolerifkin.com.
Remember When I Cried in That Church We Found?
It Only Took A Whisper
Lauren Badillo Milici is a Jersey-born, Florida-raised poet and writer currently based in West Virginia. When she isn’t crafting sad poems about sex, she’s either writing or shouting into the void about film, TV, and all things pop culture. Find her @motelsiren. Nicole Rifkin is a Canadian American Illustrator. See more work at nicolerifkin.com.
SAD SEXY CATHOLIC by Lauren Badillo Milici
I was God’s favorite, once—enough
schoolgirl in me to make Mary
sweat. not a fall-from-grace, but something sweeter.
an unlit cigarette wedged between two
adolescent fingers; & the skin like bruised fruit. now,
the only notion of holy pressed
between opaque pages, or bound
at the wrists. The sacrament of confession,
or the first time I ran my tongue
along someone else’s teeth. Enough
obedience in me to serve man,
to kneel in velvet & say a little prayer
for every single b
schoolgirl in me to make Mary
sweat. not a fall-from-grace, but something sweeter.
an unlit cigarette wedged between two
adolescent fingers; & the skin like bruised fruit. now,
the only notion of holy pressed
between opaque pages, or bound
at the wrists. The sacrament of confession,
or the first time I ran my tongue
along someone else’s teeth. Enough
obedience in me to serve man,
to kneel in velvet & say a little prayer
for every single b
Eve was Framed - jubilat
Today, a boy says, good news: I love you again,
as if this were a gift. As if all men were God.
Instead, church bells. A forgotten hymn from the Book of Revelation—
something that hurts in a way John could never find a name for.
Luckily, the past is never dead. It's not even past.
In a memory, the surgeon hands me a warm bag of my own blood.
Say this aloud. It will not protect you.
as if this were a gift. As if all men were God.
Instead, church bells. A forgotten hymn from the Book of Revelation—
something that hurts in a way John could never find a name for.
Luckily, the past is never dead. It's not even past.
In a memory, the surgeon hands me a warm bag of my own blood.
Say this aloud. It will not protect you.
SWWIM Every Day — SWWIM
I bleed for the first time in two years. I tell everyone. Someone close to me says, wow, it’s like
you’re a real woman again. Amenorrhea means no children, or children if you’re lucky. The
Latin translates to no moon. I am a moonless woman. The Pollock painting does not depict me.
Often, I think of the infertile wife & the husband who leaves her. How nobody wants to admit
they’ve been left. But I’m a real woman now. Someone will keep me. Someone will look past the
other things. The ins
you’re a real woman again. Amenorrhea means no children, or children if you’re lucky. The
Latin translates to no moon. I am a moonless woman. The Pollock painting does not depict me.
Often, I think of the infertile wife & the husband who leaves her. How nobody wants to admit
they’ve been left. But I’m a real woman now. Someone will keep me. Someone will look past the
other things. The ins
Lauren Milici | The Patron Saint of Nothing in Particular1 | Glass: A Journal of Poetry
Lauren Milici is a Florida native who writes poetry, teaches English, and is currently getting her MFA in Creative Writing somewhere in the mountains of West Virginia. When she isn't crafting sad poems about sex, she's either writing or shouting into the void about film, TV, and all things pop culture.
The Patron Saint of Nothing in Particular
for G The first time I break skin, bleed on nice white sheets, but not the last. Loss is never a person & no one can break this kid’s heart, she is so f
The Patron Saint of Nothing in Particular
for G The first time I break skin, bleed on nice white sheets, but not the last. Loss is never a person & no one can break this kid’s heart, she is so f
Two Poems | by Lauren Milici
Sorry
for the
breasts
that nearly
spilled out
onto your dinner
plate. For the lashes
that cast a shadow. For
the lips that were red, all
red, & the glitter. Sorry that
the band played louder, or was it
his pulse? Sorry for the gospel hymns
I crooned into the phone when he called.
Sorry my fingertips are ten Hail Marys. Ten
novenas. Sorry for the roses that fell out of my
mouth. For the way I pricked you & pricked you & pricked
you. My body is a gard
for the
breasts
that nearly
spilled out
onto your dinner
plate. For the lashes
that cast a shadow. For
the lips that were red, all
red, & the glitter. Sorry that
the band played louder, or was it
his pulse? Sorry for the gospel hymns
I crooned into the phone when he called.
Sorry my fingertips are ten Hail Marys. Ten
novenas. Sorry for the roses that fell out of my
mouth. For the way I pricked you & pricked you & pricked
you. My body is a gard
Lauren Milici: Special Feature
He doesn’t ask, but I tell him I don’t want to be in this body anymore. I tell him that the day Karen Carpenter’s heart stopped, her mother unmade all the beds & pulled out every single kitchen drawer. I can’t go, she told the paramedics. The house is a mess. I tell him that Karen weighed ninety-one pounds when she passed, & I am not far behind. He knows this. He knows that my nose bleeds on the days I don’t eat; that my happiest moments are just before blacking out. He knows that Death is my fi
POETRY / Once Upon a Time / Lauren Milici / Writer of the Month I
a married woman told me that I write with too much blood, too many fragments
of broken glass.
But Sarah, I said, that’s how it happened.
That’s how it always happens: the poem starts in the wrong place
and a man decides to hit me as hard as he can. Imagine,
purplegreenblack bruise and teeth-mark scar; the photo I took to prove
I was raped. Hey, I tell Sarah, I was raped.
I was raped and the story reads like a rejected script; someone else’s gritty noir.
There are no cicadas in th
of broken glass.
But Sarah, I said, that’s how it happened.
That’s how it always happens: the poem starts in the wrong place
and a man decides to hit me as hard as he can. Imagine,
purplegreenblack bruise and teeth-mark scar; the photo I took to prove
I was raped. Hey, I tell Sarah, I was raped.
I was raped and the story reads like a rejected script; someone else’s gritty noir.
There are no cicadas in th
Three Poems — Wyvern Lit
I sit on the floor & list off all the reasons why I can’t sleep. Last week, it was the couple fighting in the apartment above me. Glass broke, & then a vacuum ran for seven hours. This week, it’s you. In the dream, we’re at a theater in Florida. You’ve got stage blood on your nice white shirt & I’m wearing a pink dress, velvet & borrowed. When we talk, my knees knock together. You pick at the skin around your nails & everyone is watching us. My therapist asks me to look around the room. I can se
