disco ball

by Lexi Pelle

The disco ball has become domesticated 

like a lion that can lick a face without 

eating it, sidled up beside houseplants

and framed photos of another Disneyland 

vacation. Gone the voracious nights, 

strobed spots, bell bottoms ringing out in the church 

of bodies. Consciousness is a planet 

of mirrors: the Gods of my childhood 

shine, reflect, refract

when I get too close. 

Gourd which guards us against 

solemnity. Atom of a dwindling audaciousness. 

We electric-slid from the seventies to settle 

it here, sparkling among the white 

wire covers and throw pillows.

It still does what it does.

When was the last time I prayed 

for the sake of praying? I’m tired 

of pleas and promises decorating 

the next dimension with desperation: 

Let the lump mean nothing;

the prettier poet not win 

another prize; his eyes, 

stop them from lingering too long. 

How can I be true in my devotion 

to the sliver of light shifting

between the curtains—

I can’t feel it, though I see 

ghost stars dancing up the wall.

Lexi Pelle was the winner of the 2022 Jack McCarthy Book prize. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rattle, Ninth Letter, One Art, Abandon Journal, and 3Elements Review. Her debut book, Let Go With The Lights On, will be released in May.