C.N.P Poetry 

  • Cathexis Northwest Press

Dissent

By: Leon Fedolfi


I can’t remember the particulars of my fetal thoughts - it’s a

Gunshot Difference of

My first love - 

Honest breath. 

Then I remembered the fetus cannot think, it is not me while

Strange against my skin and head. 

There is a bouncer at the door where I am the only customer:

Little black cocktail dresses hold hands with what I want. 

A tobacco pipe sits in a Virginian virgin’s garden. Those guns go off:

I was not turned on 

to who I am, 

until programmed with language. 

Flesh and Ink   -

A pretty dissent across my chest.




Brooklyn Resident and Liberal Patriot. Likes long walks along the beach and romantic comedies.

"This poem 'broke apart' from a reflection on arguments around abortion. Not something I think about too often, and I don’t know why I was reflecting on it that night. Also, I don’t know why, in particular, it took this form. I am pro-choice, so, there may have been something I was reading on my phone that was anti-choice. To ‘abort’, there are a lot of walls in that term. Abort what? This is not a political poem, but politics scaffolds: the undercurrent is in the title, my association to the use of guns, my association to the reference to a specific southern State (of alliteration), and in the original literal inspiration. But this is not a poem about the politics of abortion. This poem was written in a bar, where there was a bouncer and I was the only customer, for a while, and I used my thumbs to hit spots on my phone that were defined as 'keys.'

That is how I wrote the poem. The idea of 'virgin' and the idea of 'abort.' I am not suggesting the poem is philosophical, but when I re-read the poem, this is what I get hung up on. The terms are film negatives (I think..maybe) of each other. Got here how? What is no longer here? I can’t remember when I came into existence, and when I sleep at night, most every night, I cease to exist. A reference to tattoos sprinkle across the modest body of work that is my writing. I love the idea that people have symbols written across their skin, like it was a fresh piece of paper. I love the idea that we can author ourselves. At one point in the night a wave of people rushed through the door. Two women in cocktail dresses were holding hands. They seemed to really care for each other."


Quick Links
Contact Us
Need More Poetry?
Check Our Our Sister Press
HighSelfPress