Photography provided by Jolie Kumin
Folie a deux
Tonight there is an island between us
waves crash against the night stand
in your bedroom,
stumbling and unsure
we exchange vowels of heavy content,
3 A.M. sweet talk
floating around the bedpost
mother's words become lost at sea,
but now ready
tell me who you want me to be,
knee deep in rose petals
paddling through the dark
Among the strangers
you are here.
For when Beatrix
comes sauntering out of apartment 2E
in an apricot pleated dress
we all forget to breathe.
Old Rose says she comes from Texas oil money
and once dated a Saudi Arabian prince,
I say she smells like Paris
and want to be her friend,
in the evening,
she walks her cat, Othello
down 22nd street
on fake holidays
white roses cover her doormat
—at least my mother sent me card.
According to the landlord,
“her beauty is the kind that ruins men”
but I tell him even women too,
last week we rode the F train
I, head pounding like piano chords
she, with glassy eyes
resting on a bronze stranger
whom she referred to as orange blossom,
during still nights,
Billie Holiday seeps through wall cracks
and I thank Beatrix for putting me to sleep.
Ode to the spot on the wall
I ﬁrst mistook you for a garden beetle
that snuck into my bedroom,
ten times over
I could have covered you
with lead paint and picture frames,
or that fancy Jim Morrison poster
I bought in Haight-Ashbury last month,
but I admire you
and your two inch body,
the way you command the southern part of the wall
proudly standing out against the lavender hue.
I enjoy our staring matches,
where you win
and I end up falling asleep
my wall freckle
you look most brilliant
when the sun peeps through the blinds
and gives you a burnt orange tint.
Ignore Caroline when she calls you ugly,
a barren tundra
don’t even deserve a spot.
is emotional and wears tan boat shoes in December. You can tell a lot about someone by the shoes they wear. I usually wear torn Converse, but tonight I’m in patent leather heels. He sits across from me in Nantucket red pants and a creamy button-up eating the leftover calamari at the edge of my plate. He's charming, almost poetic and we often wander Essex Street late nights, both shivering in our parkas talking of Montauk beaches and Martinelli's apple juice. He reminds me of a Kennedy. A mix of regal and height except he has freckles on the side of his face that I like to count when he talks. "Did you hear the last thing I even said?" I nod and sip more wine that the waiter said was a mouth watering red from France. If it were up to me, we'd be at a dive bar. Right now, he’s on a rant about his family’s legacy at Harvard. My parents didn’t go to college, so I sit quiet counting his freckles
Fay Sachpatzidis is a native New Yorker living on the last street not inhabited by hipsters in Brooklyn. She received her BA in English and Writing from Pace University in New York City. When she's not writing, you can find her walking around downtown Manhattan aimlessly or searching for the perfect peach cobbler. She is a recipient of the 2013 Academy of American Poets prize established by John Ashbery.