Temperance
Alejandra de la Cruz, Point Park University

Artist Statement: The first iteration of the poem came about in the Andy Warhol Museum on the North Shore at Pittsburgh. Campbell's soup can with the peeling label inspired the premise of the poem. Something torn and likely to be forgotten still waiting to be of service to others, to anyone. I sat and watched the painting. I worked on this poem to allow myself room to build characters and relationships in poetry that do not belong to myself exclusively. I have been writing as long as I have been speaking, it seems, and upon furthering my education, I find myself aching to release myself from my own self-induced echochamber of poetry. So I asked myself, what story do I want my poetry to tell? And so came the details; red meat, batteries, lead poisoning. Very rarely does it happen that visual art inspires my own poetry, as I have always been naturally inclined to dissect and sit with the written word and oral storytelling. This poem, in many ways, is a representation of one stop on my artistic journey.
I did tell you, I’d find cures for our sickness.
I can only imagine how badly I’d hurt you if
I press your ribs in. The heels of my palms
belong underneath your heart. How else can I know if
you are alive? Your mouth is left open. Call me your
student, I study your teeth. The soft
ridges of your canines.
What a craven mistake of mine. You
are a porcelain bull,
having plowed through my garden
of magnolias and red traffic signs.
I blink.
Was it inappropriate for me to ask when you last closed your eyes and prayed?
I knew then, every man needs God to be his own.
I never knew you to drink anything but
Diet Coke and beer. So when the kettle screamed, hissed at me
from the kitchen, I took it as my cue to
remove myself from the bed.
I wanted to be good at that part.
I wanted to be good at turning the stove off.
There was a raised floorboard in the hallway.
I didn’t care for what it hid.
I cared that I stubbed my toe on it.
I didn’t care for where you went. You were too silent.
But you left
a single can of Campbell's to stare
at me. Placation. I have never
hated you more.
I never mentioned your paratrooper boots
muddying the front door—
my grandmother's carpet. Droplets of your salivary cocktail
of chewing tobacco and rare red meat
raced down your parted lips to my
sweaty forehead.
I gave you
lightheadedness and lead poisoning.
Slow down, stop,
all I can do is blink.
I don’t look like myself anymore. My eyes
are yellow. Bleach, bright orange box dye,
double A batteries.
I find your name, spelled like
anagrams, in the obituary.
Fumes of kerosene and motor oil,
an overheated green curling iron, and a body that will only know
repentance. I’m afraid I’ve run out of soup.
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