A Hot Minute
by Okla Elliott
What a strange phrase.
We’ll stop by the bar for a hot minute, you say, or:
Talk with me for a hot minute.
As if what I had to say was so burning
a minute’s explosion would release it all.
Or that the seats at our favorite bar were heated
beyond comfort, guaranteeing a brief stop,
not an elongating evening with a friend’s
friends, whom we can’t stand.
As if time itself suffered a feverish longing.
Or after the bar—as the stop signs
blur by like ambulances—
and I’m facedown on your front lawn,
my eyelids flame-red membranes,
you lean over me, coaxing,
and I paw at your breasts like a blinded bear.
[This poem originally appeared in the International Poetry Review]
2 thoughts on “Sunday Poetry Series”
This piece has some great moments. I particularly love “As if time itself suffered a feverish longing.” Lovely. And I am so glad you broke the fourth wall and published a piece of your own. Now I can feel free to follow without shame!
Your Faithful Co-Editor,
Well, I didn’t have anything from someone else (I’ve been trying to reprint work from journals and books by people I’ve solicited), and Matt suggested I just run one of mine. Part of me feels a bit odd about it, but I justify it (if I even need to, which my obsessive neuroticism makes me kinda feel I do) by the fact that the editors at International Poetry Review liked it enough to print first.
But I am happy I have set the precedent, because I look forward to reading your work.