Erik Fuhrer is the author of 6 books of poetry, including Eye Apocalypse
(Spuyten Duyvil, 2021). They can be found at

Shot of Gellar

I need a shot
of Gellar
to make it
this world
that tells me
stones are the eyes
of oysters, tells me
to bite down
and taste
the ocean
in the hard
crust. Everything
tastes better
with a cocktail,
some bourbon,
orange peel.
I'll wash
down a quarry
with a French martini.

A seagull flew
over my chest
while sunning
at Santa Monica.
Its wings beat
my blood
into an egg
and then
I was me again.
some sand.
Where's the bartender?

The tides
are a different color
from my eyes.
Shale blue, ocean view.
That's how
I remember
this world
is actually kind
of beautiful.
Kaleidoscope. Spill
a little bit
of my heart
into a widow's
peaked wave.

So give me
and another
but don't forget me
when the sun
You see,
my eyes
are Versace.
Please take care looking
they are a bit
loose. I am
a Gucci robe
without a body inside
but goddamn
do I sparkle.
What kind
of thread count
are ghosts?
Asking for a friend.

To New Water
For Helen Shivers, I Know What You Did Last Summer (1997)

I caught a galaxy
in my throat
and I'm still
shedding stars.
You, I'm told
were a queen
when we were still
searching our nets
for fish. Here,
this constellation
is yours.
Its heat
will body you
out of death.
You can't expire
if you are
part of the
universe. You are
forever crowned.

He cut your hair
while you
were sleeping.
I know
what it is like
to be awakened
in the night
with part of you
Hair is a metaphor
for the body.
Hair is also
simply beautiful.
And no parts
of our bodies
are anyone's fruit.

I follow
your ambition
to new water.
But I am
always afraid
I will be found
and outed
for my crimes only
I have never
committed a crime.
My only
crime, like yours,
was to try
to escape
and become whole.
Too bad
you also pushed
that dead body
into the water.
But perhaps, you
really wished
to be pushing yours.
I understand that.
But maybe
I'm giving you
too much credit. Maybe
You really just
drowned a man.

How High
For Cici Cooper, Scream 2 (1997)

Your home serpentine
a crooked spine
that you claw into
for safety. Ghosts
flood our hallways
so that we mistake
the white light of death
for God. You
clawed deep
into what was once
safety. He slipped
you deeper into
his mural of death.
Your body crawling
into fiction.

Who is reading
the novels
our flesh began?
I have lost my pen.
And you have lost
your life. I lost mine
long ago. How
does one live
in a swallowed narrative?
Someone chased
us both deep
into the interior
and we didn't
make it till the end
and we all know
who did it, saw
them unmasked.
But that will not
resurrect our old
flesh. You on
the pavement.
Me in the theater
watching you
get thrown off
that roof. Having
the dark desire
to join you.

How high up
would I need to be
to flood this novel
and begin again
in a world
where you and I
could, for once,
be unafraid?

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