
Krystal Languell was born in Indiana and currently lives in Chicago, Illinois. She is the author of two books, Call the Catastrophists (BlazeVox, 2011) and Gray Market (1913 Press, 2016), and five chapbooks. In 2013-14, she was awarded a Poetry Project Emerge-Surface-Be fellowship and, in 2014-15, she completed a Lower Manhattan Cultural Council workspace residency. She is a 2017 NYSCA/NYFA Artist Fellowship Finalist in Poetry.
my grandmother: no contact for five years
my aunt: no contact for eight years
my biological grandmother: no contact for 12 years
her partner died and in the obituary, my cousins were listed but not my sister or me or our parents
the grandmother moved to North Carolina in the 90s and said the black people there were more respectful
periodically she tattooed her eyeliner and brows
when we saw my aunt at my grandfather’s funeral she said, “I hate being divorced”
a few years later we found her husband’s mug shot online
no contact for eight years
wanted for three years
he fled the state of South Carolina when he was due in court on charges of child rape
my parents’ best friends: no contact in several years
since they divorced and the husband cited her son’s black girlfriend and her black children as a reason
the wife moved to Belgium and remarried
she’d worked in a cardboard factory previously
she’d drive to Walkerton to pick up her grandchild
the husband had sometimes been drunk enough to piss himself
the husband had told me that if I were to plan a marriage, he must approve the groom
this is just one side and some friends
a handful of dead ends
her boss stole from the homeless shelter
he faked sales receipts on donated cars for decades
she photocopied years’ worth and kept them at home
he’s dead now
she was afraid he would burn down their house if she leaked it
my sister lost four friends to suicide
and referred to loss in a mock interview, & the counselor thought she meant ‘friends moving away for college’
our grandmother had an address book with a ✓ next to people to notify of her death
we didn’t get a ✓
Do I think anyone will see the poems?
No, I don’t think anyone will see the poems
a white girl touched me with her toes
she was barefoot with her feet up in Latin Sports Club
I recoiled
I decide against responding when my aunt sends me a message
“Why, because they’re acting like vultures?”
you can punish your family after you die
you can punish anyone
I used to ride in the Escalade with my aunt’s ex-husband
he took me to a property he bought in Myrtle Beach
a young man had set his girlfriend’s clothes on fire, then the fire got out of hand
she moved back in with her parents
in the condo, I looked through her burnt things
he was turned on by the smoke smell
by the neighbor watching us, clipping his toenails outside
I liked his money and I wanted him to like me
he watched me notice a ceramic dolphin & told me I could take anything I wanted
I touched it, I didn’t take it
message boards about his crimes teach me his family is rich on owning trailer parks
money never not dirty
dirty never not worse than dirt
when he sold the red Suburban, he printed a new title off the internet
his friend came over to look at my x-rays while I puked percocet into a sand bucket in his bed
he should have let me go
what happened happened
am I afraid of anyone?
yeah, I’m afraid of a few people
as a child I was warned about airing dirty laundry
(it’s probably not the people you would guess)
another poem about corruption
a stranger told me I was lucky to get out alive
I am lucky to be alive, but I am pretending to be dead
or I am pretending they are dead
you can punish your family before you die, too
he cut her face with a car key
she hid in the closet
my biological grandmother had a daycare with her partner on U.S. 31 for a while
they wore similar flannels & mock turtlenecks, not matchy-matchy
north of Indianapolis: not Carmel and not Meridian Street
my mom drove us to visit one summer and it was boarded up
she used to call my parents’ landline and leave a voicemail every few years
she’d say “It’s been a terrible year” and not leave a callback number
“Everybody’s shit stinks,” my sister wise-asses
No contact
No contact
No funeral
No obituary
No future
No contact
No ✓
No
