Rumpus Original Poetry: Three Poems by Eileen G’Sell

 
INVISIBLE MEN
Lately I’ve stopped seeing rich white men. We are more important than the secret,
we are more practical than the secret,
we are more secret than the secret,
which makes us the secret. More from this author → Her chapbooks are available from Dancing Girl and BOAAT Press, and her first full-length book of poems, Life After Rugby, will be published with Gold Wake Press in early 2018. A Features Editor at The Rumpus, Eileen G’Sell has contributed cultural criticism and poetry to Salon, VICE, Boston Review, “DIAGRAM, and the Denver Quarterly, among others. I can’t know for sure, but had I the chance, I would stand on my toes behind them. The heart is rock
until it is thrown. I would cup my palm and whisper warmly: Please, don’t take it personally. Let’s take the diamond out of the box. A cheap love
for easy truths is hardly
going to kill you. Such blindness (or vision) is an enviable asset, though I suppose there are those who take affront. At worst, life is easy. Plainly we would wed the world
entire were it original. I would like to believe
I believe it is true. I have two new shoes
and neither is practical,
though I love them both,
though I treat them best. You can find her on Twitter @Reckless_Edit.  
HONEYMOON THAT NEVER HAPPENED
Let’s say red. The rings rush down
a thousand rooms, a finger’s
worth of brilliance. Why else does faith belittle
those who spread their sheets
so thinly? Ready
or not, the winter shrinks. &laquo Previous post like this

Rumpus Original Poetry: Three Poems by Eileen G’Sell

By Eileen G’Sell
June 19th, 2017

 
 
 
REAL BUTTER
At best, life is hard. The trick is how to trick
yourself. Ready to serve,
the season thickens. The secret is not hiding
from the music at a party. And what about the words
that cannot teach us anything? I believe it is true. When they come my way, I only see what happens to hide behind them—the velvet folds of a lobby curtain, a happy homeless dog, the abstract art on an abstract wall that no one bothered to sign. Let’s say trickling southward Sunday briefs. Which makes us the secret
beauty that at worst is still
a sort of belief. Let’s be brief, fiercely genius. I just happen to see right through you.