The Ballad of Nan Goldin

May 1, 2016

I want what you want, to be a queen.

Nan One Month After Being Battered, 1984

hung on the mayo'd wall over my mattress, both frameless.

Drunken daze, you and me in the backseat of a taxi

watched your friend transform

heading down second avenue north,

honest blues and gold eyeliner compliments his hair.

Glitter trail to blonde lips inside a nightclub,

depart our heels from standing too long.

Then stumble through the boroughs half lit moon,

up the stairs to the condo.

They'll already be there, tipsy and unbuttoned.

Pulled to your feet, fight the beat with hips, head.

Armstrong cradled in my lap, his tick to Tiny Dancer.

On his deathbed, lifted his shades,

exclaimed "and they thought it’d be aids."

Loss of muse so we caught the next flight to Boston,

take a rental to your parents, I drive.

You, pressed eye through the lens of a nikon,

next seat over waiting for anything to feel.

Something wrong with this poem?

Replies are closed for this poem.

See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.

Comments (0)

No comments yet. Be the first to share your thoughts.