Painted Bride Quarterly

Episode 89: Bloomwards & Eggsome

Episode 89: Bloomwards & Eggsome

POEMS BY KAILEY TEDESCO THREE POEMS ACCEPTED April 28, 2020 Bloomwards & Eggsome   What’s your background, Slushies? Sounds like a loaded question, right? But it’s really a reference to your choice of green-screen background Zoomery. This episode opens with a larking conversation about our current delight in Zoom’s capacity to allow us to upload virtual backgrounds for our physical spaces. (The discussion of poems starts at 8:01 if you want to skip the banter). Kathleen’s surrounded by tulips (while she’s actually holed up in her 3rd floor garret, with a dormer ceiling making her look like Alice in Wonderland). Jason is perched in front of IRL bookcases. Samantha is podcasting with her kitchen over her shoulder. Opting for a plain white wall, Marion nonetheless dons a seriously fringed top in honor of Jason’s signature leather jacket. And Alex Tunney, long-time PBQ editor inducted by our dear pal Daniel Nester a million years ago, joins the podcast for the first time and rocks a Piet Mondrian background. (Nicely done!). All of which serves as a perfect set up for an episode dedicated to poems submitted by Kailey Tedesco. Tedesco’s poems are full of magic and mysticism, shadows and spells. Her work moves across a range of styles—from an ekphrastic poem inspired by Hilma af Klint’s magnificent paintings to a reconfiguration of creepy childhood legends (like Bloody Mary) while playing with forms. We were drawn to the process-based mysticism, speculative feminism, and feminist horror coming through these poems. And Kathleen jumped in and read #7, because…#7.   THE DISCUSSION BEGINS AT 8:49   Recommended Reading: Marion’s raving about Bernardine Evaristo’s Girl, Woman, Other   Samantha’s loving Carmen Maria Machado’s memoir, In the Dream House   Jason’s devouring Brenda Shaughnessy’s So Much Synth   And we are supremely grateful for the poetry of Eavan Boland, who passed the day before we recorded this episode. Here is her masterful poem, “Quarantine.”    This episode is brought to you by one of our sponsors, Wilbur Records, who kindly introduced us to the artist is A.M.Mills whose song “Spaghetti with Lorraine” now opens our show.  At the table: Kathleen Volk Miller, Jason Schneiderman, Marion Wrenn, Samantha Neugebauer,  and Alex Tunney Kailey Tedesco is the author of She Used to be on a Milk Carton (April Gloaming Publishing), Lizzie, Speak, and the forthcoming collection, FOREVERHAUS (White Stag Publishing). She is a senior editor for Luna Luna Magazine. You can find her work in Electric Literature, Fairy Tale Review, Gigantic Sequins, and more.    Her Instagram & Twitter is @kaileytedesco   7 adulthood after Hilma af Klint   you’ll remember me  as a zygote scrambling towards cronehood  on its haunches; i grow bloomwards. my teeth outstretched  on the front lawn  during the violet hour, spelling spells disguised  as poems. hermit to hermit; we kiss  to form  a single nautilus, sistering divinity. tell me when was it  you last  heard from your spirit?  my guides  have abducted  me quite  violently  from the tulips i’ve found myself asleep in.  it is all but true; my eggs  have clasped in my womb  like pearls.  my intention  is not to create life, but death. though, i misspoke — my true intention is  to create life out of death.  find me in the portal  on the left, right next to the electric  fences of my  darknesses, all  clumped.  inside the beheaded apartment   the sky whispers something eggsome then breaks its rain, thick & frozen. i crave the cigarettes  i’ve never smoked; not marlboro. i picture you before the time everything could kill you, glamour   in your beehive & twiggy dress, smoke haloing the mini-chandeliers. i beckon for you  to gemstone through me, egyptology — my lipstick glyphs on the edges of your sink. there are    teeth in the walls, did you know that? whole fangs, pulled clean at the root, & toenails, too,  flaking from the ceiling. i lived with estate sale busts of nefertiti, estate sale victorian lace,    bagged & labeled with the year, estate sale chaises of green velvet. green because it reminds  me of france, where i have never been, but where the sun is a vintage wallpaper. in the window    across the way, women in mourning bonnets have st. columba hands holding tight  to the dogs in their rosary chains. the plexi glass cracks in the shape of a crown or witch hat. there    is no bathroom but the one with the freckled clawfoot. the cats have become anxious with the  roach-scroll of the floorboards. we say they perform theatrical productions  — one ophelia,    lounging in wet lavender sogging the carpet-shag, one desdemona, clawing at tissue for  handkerchiefs. something is crawling in me, teeth in the walls of boning. i wear the whole house   that used to be yours like a corset. this place is no good for us, i tell your lack of existence. all  the bodily fluids of every other tenant filth me — all the living hosts whispering in tune with the    mold water-logging my pillows. bring me my peacock & she-bear, my estate sale saints. it is time i sic them on my landlords, bring back your sight & my seeing. i shall go ahead    and make my own kingdom out of deadbolts. bloody mary x 3    there goes my top skull jack-in-the-boxing from your suzy-talks-a-lot eyelids. maybe i’ve been dead a long time. maybe i’ve been dead never ever. live with me forever in the medicine cabinet   where my limbs smoke ring doll-wards through your own reflection. spinning my head  all the way around is what i do for a pageant talent. every time you call my name,    you put a knife in it—my face wounds towards yours. i become nothing but a blood-aura  on your tooth fairy bedding. unlike yours, my wedding gown will lack knuckle-buttons & i envy.    you should have made me more opulent in the story where i’m saint-corpsed with gumball rings on every finger. let me live display-cased at the dead mall, cradling the body you’ve made us.     i’ll hold you too, if you’d like. we can lace together, spine glued to spine, a jar of our parts  now puzzled. then my head, free by comparison, can decapitate & become a locket    facing the wrong way. the backstage of night is what i’d like to see most—everything zombifying from the dirt of sky.  i see the same stars as you.   there goes my head. i’m coming back to life.     An array of relevant links:    Hilma af Klint at the Guggenheim And here is the Guggenheim on No. 7 Adulthood:   (Or this link, too, for more images) The legend of Bloody Mary Debunked: And scienced up:

Duration: 1 hr 9 min

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