Amanda Lovelace

Question 1

If I could drag my own name through the dirt,
I’d do it. Pull Huvarshta into the apostasy of
blood, let my kin coagulate. My DNA is a cult
in which my coup has blessed the Septuagint
to spread ink in the shape of a Y. Or why. Do
you count the days until you’re burned at the
stake? I’m Avraham, the son of Avraham.
Celebrating valentine’s day as I roast.

– Aaron Kent

Answer 1

i will not survive this winter. the
boys with fistfuls of matchsticks are

pound. pound. pounding. at
my cottage door. while

witches may be flammable, the
match-boys cannot burn the heart shape my

lover’s lips take on when she whispers my
name through the dark. the

match-boys cannot burn the
mother-to-daughter tales sliding off

the angry tongues of my ancestors
for centuries to come. (they’ll

inherit my flames & store them in their veins for later
& they’ll have the match-boys to thank for it.)

the match-boys cannot burn the wronged
woman’s wrath of artemis, goddess

of hunt(ing the boys who come for
women like me with hate-blaze eyes.) i

may not survive this winter,
but my dragonfire will last through them all.

– Amanda Lovelace

Question 2

I’m bleeding robusta in slow-wave
sleep, burning my parchment coat
into the sand of Budapest. Dancing
eyes in my kitchen, perhaps some
jövendölés to fade young, with no
crema. Is it possible to sleep your
way to an early grave? I float upon
the Danube’s silver face, searching
for the wedding ring my ancestors
lost in Hungary’s tear. I find rapid
eye movement as a crippled wreck,
pure love by chance, by soul, by life.

– Aaron Kent

Answer 2

the internet stranger man-boy loaded with
rehearsed bedroom eyes, arctic wolf smirks,

& dark roast breath says to me, “you’re
too young to be so tired. you can sleep when

you’re dead, darling.” in the air above his head, i
edit his words to turn them into something i

can actually agree with, the girl loaded with a
disinterest she can’t hide, three sweaters that can’t

stop the shivering, & a parent-shocking secret (a
never-sterile razor taped to the bottom of her mattress).

“you can sleep when you‘re wish to be
dead, darling.” perfect.

– Amanda Lovelace

Question 3

I consider a pentagram on my arm
to exorcise the weight of the world
on my shoulders, pressed firmly
by the scale of my taatto’s lies.
Gold threaded embellishments
weave a journey into my eighteenth
birthday. There is an arc of light
in the corner of the room, the cat
stares, I stare, knowing I’m something
close to an adult now. When does it happen?
When do we phase over into maturity
and something resembling an adult? I still
don’t feel it. I was never adult enough
to hear of the noose he wanted
to put around his neck, but adult enough
to be fed those words anyway.

– Aaron Kent

Answer 3

I.

as an infant
i was

……………tiny
……………pink
……………helpless
……………frog-like

& my mother
changed my diaper
with duty & precision
& i would only guess a cigarette
haphazardly sandwiched between
two of her kitchen-manicured fingers

II.

as a middle-aged woman
my mother was

…………….tiny
…………….grey
…………….helpless
…………….dead-frog-like

& hours after
changing her diaper
with huffing & puffing & wet eyes
(i watched) through the bathroom window
as nameless&faceless strangers carried (her) out
to be (burn)ed

– (& i didn’t feel anything)

– Amanda Lovelace

Question 4

Today we left the house
and managed to spend the last of this week’s

wage on salad, and cat food, and orange juice.
There were too many people

in the aisles, and a vegetarian family
at the next till who clearly didn’t get the memo
on Uggs. We watched the kids

run riot and attack the impulse buys
like locust to a jellybean factory.

[kinda confused and not sure how to succeed]

And we knew we were just
5 short months
away from other people watching us
watching our new born cry.

There is a smugness in living external
to experience, don’t you think, Amanda? A series
of ignorances that will soon recede and die. We bought

quorn

and

products not tested on animals

and

were proud of ourselves. Because we don’t wear

Uggs.

– Aaron Kent

Answer 4

yes, aaron,
i guess
you could say
there’s a certain
smugness
in living external
to an experience
that will
eventually
come
crashingintoyou
like an oncoming
train.
like the train i
sat stalled in
for
over an hour
& complained
incessantly
to my mother
about
being late
to the concert
while men
in protective suits
scraped pieces
of the
suicide jumper
off the tracks.
it’s like
all those
years later
waking up
at half past
noon
skin-under-fingernails
angry with
myself
for
not thinking
of that
way out
first.

– Amanda Lovelace

Question 5

Imagine me dressed as Godzilla
drunk on fine wine.
That’s Saturday nights
……..– that’s how I waste
……..my
……..life.
Who sets the agen
……………………….da
……………………………and
why?
Imagine me watching Godzilla
sipping sleepy time tea.
That’s actually my nights
……..– that’s really how I waste
……..my
……..time.

– Aaron Kent

Answer 5

catch me
in bed
playing
with matches
surrounded by
the letters
i never sent
the monster-boy
who shares your
name.

catch me
lighting
…………blowing out
lighting
…………blowing out
lighting
…………b l o w i n g o u t
matches
surrounded by
the letters

i never sent    
i never sent    
i never sent    
i never sent    
i never sent    

catch me
eating those
flames
next to the
sleeping
cinnamon-boy
who
couldn’t save me
from him/myself/him/
………………………………myself.

(no one
ever
could have
& i know
he still
loves that
six years
one wife
one child-with-his-big-bad-wolf-smile
later.)

when
the smoke
wakes the
cinnamon-boy
he sits up
in bed
& eats fire
with me
& the letters
remain unharmed.

– who sets the agenda? who follows it anyway?

– Amanda Lovelace

The poetic interview with Amanda Lovelace will be posted soon. Keep checking back.