Danika Stegeman
Mirror Ball II
At first I remember only the haters.
We’re at a too-large table that becomes a too-small table.
My soul slips out, and it doesn’t seem to matter
that the other women can shapeshift and have the breasts
of a Venus figurine.
I write the structure of a tree
with scalloped leaves and dendrites mirroring.
You trace the letters curving
into iridescent scales of a fish.
You recite my lines back to me
and intone the words so you know I know
their referent is me.
I grasp your hand and let go.
I grasp your hand again, and you hold it as you pace the room,
though somehow I sit still
while my hand moves with you.
Iterations of unclaimed gestures
fan out before us.
We enter an amphitheater to be engulfed
in a crowd.
I lose you in the acoustics that honeycomb in labyrinths.
I move close.
I move away.
A woman in tortoiseshell frames and a cat sweater
nudges me back into your sphere.
She is my cat sweater goddess.
We speak without looking at each other,
pressed up against two walls that make a right angle.
You show me my card.
You tell me you’ll write me,
though I’m a little too enthusiastic.
I apologize, say this must happen to you
every two hours.
You look at me, grab my hand and say not this.
This never happens.
We’re at a too-large table that becomes a too-small table.
My soul slips out, and it doesn’t seem to matter
that the other women can shapeshift and have the breasts
of a Venus figurine.
I write the structure of a tree
with scalloped leaves and dendrites mirroring.
You trace the letters curving
into iridescent scales of a fish.
You recite my lines back to me
and intone the words so you know I know
their referent is me.
I grasp your hand and let go.
I grasp your hand again, and you hold it as you pace the room,
though somehow I sit still
while my hand moves with you.
Iterations of unclaimed gestures
fan out before us.
We enter an amphitheater to be engulfed
in a crowd.
I lose you in the acoustics that honeycomb in labyrinths.
I move close.
I move away.
A woman in tortoiseshell frames and a cat sweater
nudges me back into your sphere.
She is my cat sweater goddess.
We speak without looking at each other,
pressed up against two walls that make a right angle.
You show me my card.
You tell me you’ll write me,
though I’m a little too enthusiastic.
I apologize, say this must happen to you
every two hours.
You look at me, grab my hand and say not this.
This never happens.
Dear Matthew, [for half an hour left the muffle]
for half an hour left the muffle I try
desire as an object spread
an astral plane or mooncut waves my hands crater like the moon,
and I’m the moon pulling invisible thread
see what see what I
wait for spill over me in waves say you are enough but
find this reckoning
offer me relief. I breathe space between
each opening, the silences
synchronous orbit a vacuum
a gentle sound.
It’s late I realize
Yours,
Danika
desire as an object spread
an astral plane or mooncut waves my hands crater like the moon,
and I’m the moon pulling invisible thread
see what see what I
wait for spill over me in waves say you are enough but
find this reckoning
offer me relief. I breathe space between
each opening, the silences
synchronous orbit a vacuum
a gentle sound.
It’s late I realize
Yours,
Danika
Dear Matthew, [I write to the eye]
I write to the eye I’m fiber breaking pliable, becoming
material recomposed in years years have passed since you
said you speak to a you that doesn’t come apart.
you said stay choose and then stop and then
I apologized profusely I don’t mean I
don’t anymore.
I consider ghost
Yrs,
Danika
material recomposed in years years have passed since you
said you speak to a you that doesn’t come apart.
you said stay choose and then stop and then
I apologized profusely I don’t mean I
don’t anymore.
I consider ghost
Yrs,
Danika
Danika Stegeman is the author of Ablation (11:11 Press, 2023) and Pilot (Spork Press, 2020). She’s an assistant editor for Conduit and serves as board treasurer for Fonograf Editions. Along with Jace Brittain, she co-curates the online collaborative reading series It’s Copperhead Season. Recent work appears or is forthcoming in A Dozen Nothing, Coma, Psycho Holosuite, Tyger Quarterly, and Word for/ Word. She lives in St. Paul, MN. Her website is danikastegeman.com.