Daylight Saving
This summer in Philly, a directive to kill spotted lanternflies
formed citywide camaraderie: an outlet for our dislocated furies.
Neighbors swatted together in the still air. Some strung
the insects onto earrings. Nothing is free in America—
that’s every first gen’s starting inheritance— but most anything
can become commerce. As it stands, most of waking life is spent working
so we self-style into sentience-adjacency, plus kitschy phrasing
like Sunday scaries & happy hour.
*
The inscrutability of my wanting makes an ever-shifting target.
Was pleasure always so conditional? Or is too much else ruptured—
& not in the quick-fix way, where a few hours of airplane mode
recalibrate the senses. Desire is propulsive, until I skid.
I wonder if anyone else can see my affections ricochet around,
in search of a solid landing. If the muses get worn out, too, & take breathers
while the golden hour’s light remakes the world into a calm & creamy
cosmic latte— the official average color of the galaxy.
*
When the clocks recede, I think of the boss who, when meetings
ended early, would say I’m giving you back a half-hour, or whatever it was,
in full salute of chartering another’s time. I built a paltry arsenal
of long strolls, uppers, benzos, valerian anything, post-it piles,
a blur of someones in expensed hotel beds,
propped on elbows asking What is it that you do, again?
*
Bang to be let back into my own thoughts…
Consider healthcare coverage a windfall…
Mourn the fallen moon tree (though it was a copy of another moon tree)...
Mourn the redwoods, fireflies, platypuses, permafrost, all else that deserves to outlive us & won’t…
Mental math on what I can afford to enjoy…
Daydream what mutual care could do…
Daydream of everyone walking out & getting what they want & not coming back, even then…
Especially then…
Reply & reply... Attach the attachments…
*
Mid-workday, I pantomime being inconsolably turned on
until we both are for real, & I catch you grinning on-screen.
Our little grid all lit now. Time taken back, turned
into a dreamy, useless goo.
*
The maple leaves wobble down each day, clump onto windshields.
One hitches a ride on my shoulder all the way from downtown to West
& the blinking reindeer wedged among six-pack holders in the bodega window
for years now are the only seasonal décor I abide, & oh—it’s no longer a surprise
to have our sense of temporality totally fucked with. I find equilibrium
in some primordial tug from the earth, urging to spin away
from the locus of enterprise, where it’s painted forever evergreen
& you never learn how to keep still, each other warm.
Alina Pleskova
Alina Pleskova is a poet, editor, and Russian immigrant turned proud Philadelphian. Her work has been featured in American Poetry Review, Thrush, Entropy, Cosmonauts Avenue, Peach Mag, and elsewhere. Her chapbook, What Urge Will Save Us, was published by Spooky Girlfriend Press in 2017. She is co-editor of bedfellows and a founding member of the Cheburashka Collective. More at: alinapleskova.com.