Suzanne La Rue
42 San Lorenzo Drive
Three Steps to the Left, Neptune
sml7713@uncw.edu
910 667 0009

Holy Vespers

I always knew I would write about him. Ever since that night we shared a pack of Red 100s by the White Oak River, ever since he lit that first match off the dock railing and made me fall in love with not only his bad habits, but the smell of Marlboros and magnolias that have since made Southern summers unbearable “What would you write about?” he asked with a drawl that come more from having no sense of urgency rather than being in Carteret County too long.
“The way you smoke a cigarette,” he laughed, taking another long, slow drag, but it was true. He inhaled with a hallowed exaltation, and exhaled with his head titled back, not to prevent the smell from settling into his hair but to watch that cancerous ribbon of lace make its slow way to heaven—his holy vespers. It was not the first time I found myself thinking his habit was the only form of prayer he knew.

Suzanne La Rue
42 San Lorenzo Drive
Three Steps to the Left, Neptune
sml7713@uncw.edu
910 667 0009

We Poets
for Kyle Simmons


We will never drive a Silver Lexus,
instead we’ll have to content ourselves
with me-too cars—for ours will be lives
fueled more by love than gasoline.
While others might find shelter in Suburbia,
we’ll make our home in the trenches:
war correspondents of mankind
relaying every victory and forfeit,
all the heroics and atrocities of the soul
in its blood-feud with the world.
Though they may never understand
sacrificing fiscal advantage on the altar
of our dreams, we’ll still martyr more,
hearts to histories, compiling this book
of human language on the off chance
they may say, “Thank you.”


And that is why, as we trolled that speck
of road between the sea and the sound,
under that sky of shooting starts
I told him, “There are worse fates
than being a poet.” He told me,
“Not really.”

Suzanne La Rue
42 San Lorenzo Drive
Three Steps to the Left, Neptune
sml7713@uncw.edu
910 667 0009

My “Fuck you, Ohio” Ghazal
--to JM, with love


It is no accident I learned to knit while cooped up in Ohio.
Knitting’ll keep ya sane, La Rue. It’s all that can in scarlet and gray Ohio,

because there is something so fundamentally vile about winter in Ohio,
something in the sleet, the snow and the cold of scarlet and gray Ohio.

And I swore after that last snowstorm never to return to Ohio,
to repeat the mistakes I always make while in scarlet and gray Ohio.

The deep freeze creates a stagnancy on the brown-slushed earth of Ohio—
home for the bacteria and parasites that ruined scarlet and gray Ohio.

Those lying lips sink too many friend-ships in landlocked Columbus, Ohio,
“too many coincidences” painting me Ethel Rosenberg Red in cold, gray Ohio.

Suzanne La Rue
42 San Lorenzo Drive
Three Steps to the Left, Neptune
sml7713@uncw.edu
910 667 0009

“So don’t waste my time and your curses on verses
about what you are against, despise, and abhor.
Tell me what inspires you, what fulfills and fires you,
put your goddamn pen to paper and tell me what you’re for!”
- Taylor Mali, Sliverlined Heart

My Pen to Paper

I am for loud, animalistic love making that lets
everyone in a ten mile radius know you’re having
a better time than they are.
I am for a personal god that runs after me like a mother hen
and an impersonal god that just hung the universe up like a mobile.
I am for long walks to nowhere, jet lag, blasting the car stereo,
top down along the interstate, putting off laundry until the last
possible moment, and buyer’s remorse.
I am for letting my tits see sunshine every once and a while.
I am for the beauty of the Blue Ridge Mountains, the South
in charm, Yanks in policy, but neither as much as I am for
the saltiness of the sea and bottles of Emergency Tequila.
I am for Russell Simmon’s Def Poetry Jam
as much as I am for Flavor of Love, so here
let me give some love to popular, escapist entertainment
and to the snobs that dare give me flack for it,
“What? You don’t like Star Wars?”
I’m for wholesome fun like babies eating lemons,
unwholesome fun like lace teddies with matching underpants
and, most importantly, the solidarity of stitch-n-bitches.

I’m for absurdists that say something,
hippies that do something, those with
the courage it takes to speak with authority,
to say “I love you” when you mean it,
or to say “Help me” when you need it.
I’m for the simple things in life, so a hearty
three cheers for towels right out of the dryer,
diet coke for breakfast, the cool side of the pillow
and finally, here’s to Taylor Mali’s silver lining--
the idea the glass is half full, which I’m definitely for.

In case you haven't figured it out by now, this is good bye.

So---I'm thinking bangs. But I have no idea how that would look.


Having a vagina--your opinion on the matter is needed.

I'm running away, forgoing all responsibility and obligations and acting out in an entirely self-centered manner in an attempt to quell my restless longing.

Or, that's what I would be doing, had I but the guts.

Why I am better than WoW:

10) Be you horde or alliance—I will help you out regardless.

9) I am real.

8) My name is way easy to pronounce.

7) I don't give you rez sickness whenever I save your life.

6) I would understand and even expect you to make fun of any technological-romances.

5) On the whole, I use proper grammar. Can WoW boast the same? Nope.

4) I let you play with me for free.

3) Baby, I think your love is an artifact.

2) The World of Warcraft does not hold you when you’re vulnerable.

And the number one reason why I am better than WoW…

1) WoW will never ever ever make you fish sticks



This is was Lauren birthday card from me, roughly.

Frank Capra gives me hope that one day this screwball will find someone to love her too.

“Alexander Andrews: Do you love her?
Peter Warne: A normal human being couldn't live under the same roof with her without going nutty! She's my idea of nothing!
Alexander Andrews: I asked you a simple question! Do you love her?
Peter Warne: YES! But don't hold that against me, I'm a little screwy myself!”

--It Happened One Night.

First read this poem a year ago--haven't read a better one since.
Enjoy.





You Bring Out the Mexican in Me
-Sandra Cisneros

You bring out the Mexican in me.
The hunkered thick dark spiral.
The core of a heart howl.
The bitter bile.
The tequila lágrimas on Saturday all
through next weekend Sunday.
You are the one I’d let go
the other loves for,
surrender my one-woman house.
Allow you red wine in bed,
even with my vintage lace linens.
Maybe. Maybe.

For you.

You bring out the Dolores del Río in me.
The Mexican spitfire in me.
The raw navajas, glint and passion in me.
The raise Cain and dance with the rooster-footed devil in me.
The spangled sequin in me.
The eagle and the serpent in me.
The mariachi trumpets of the blood in me.
The Aztec love of war in me.
The fierce obsidian of the tongue in me.
The berrinchuda bien-cabrona in me.
The Pandora’s curiosity in me.
The pre-Columbian death and destruction in me.
The rainforest disaster, nuclear threat in me.
The fear of fascists in me.
Yes, you do. Yes, you do.

You bring out the colonizer in me.
The holocaust of desire in me.
The Mexico City ’85 earthquake in me.
The Popocatepetl/Ixtaccíhuatl in me.
The tidal wave of recession in me.
The Agustín Lara hopeless romantic in me.
The barbacoa taquitos on Sunday in me.
The cover the mirrors with cloth in me.


Sweet twin. My wicked other,
I am the memory that circles your bed nights,
that tugs you taut as moon tugs ocean.
I claim you all mine,
arrogant as Manifest Destiny.
I want to rattle and rent you in two.
I want to defile you and raise hell.
I want to pull out the kitchen knives,
dull and sharp, and whisk the air with crosses.
Me sacas lo mexicana en mi.
Like it or not, honey.

You bring out the Uled-Nayl in me.
The stand-back-white-bitch in me.
The switchblade in the boot in me.
The Acapulco cliff diver in me.
The Flecha Roja mountain disaster in me.
The dengue fever in me.
The ¡Alarma! murderess in me.
I could kill in the name of you and think
it worth it. Brandish a fork and terrorize
rivals, female and male, who loiter and look
at you, languid in your light. Oh,

I am evil.
I am the filth goddess Tlazoltéotl.
I am the swallower of sins.
The lust goddess without guilt.
The delicious debauchery. You bring out
the primordial exquisiteness in me.
The nasty obsession in me.
The corporal and venial sin in me.
The original transgression in me.

Red ocher. Yellow ocher. Indigo.
Cochineal. Piñon. Copal. Sweetgrass. Myrrh.
All you saints, blessed and terrible,
Virgen de Guadalupe, diosa Coatlicue,
I invoke you.

Quiero ser tuya. Only yours. Only you.
Quiero amarte. Atarte. Amarrarte.
Love the way a Mexican woman loves. Let
me show you . Love the only way I know how.