Selena Cotte
Confrontation with the simulation
Perhaps a quite pervasive trauma is of the child denied anything real.
Perhaps it’s because my first snow was made of bubbles.
My mom’s work name was Esmerelda,
she sold magical vacations
took me to meet the Grinch for Christmas
& implanted memories of plastic oranges and studio sets
that I envision when I go as far back as my eyes
will let me. I’m talking years of Mickey Mouse
and Shamu and foam playgrounds and buildings
built to look like other buildings (that were already
inspired!) wanting to see so much, allowed a
representation instead. Maybe I got sucked into
Spaceship Earth, half-formed, Walt unable to let
me crawl away. I convinced myself at age 11 that I
developed teleportation powers, like I really believed
it for a day. I had an aunt who gave me $20 on my
cousin’s birthday to keep from saying I was sick.
I brought magnets to middle school to attract the
Taurus boy who showed me, on Gaia Online, the
Bowling for Soup song “High School Never Ends,”
of which he wrote: Too true, man. Why did they ask
me to avert my eyes? And what is a poem if not the
truth, at last? Maybe nothing still, but relief.
*****
Frac/ture
The spring I broke my wrist
riding a pink Barbie scooter in
full view of my mother
I got a lime green cast for Maddie Patinkin
who introduced me to viral videos,
Victoria’s Secret lip gloss
& MySpace-friending men
pretending to be Daniel Radcliffe
my handwriting so atrocious—
Mr. Joyner (similar origins,
confessed adulterer,
taught me 2 dollar swear words,
all bark and a motorcycle)
foresaw the danger of a young woman
with no way to ease her shaky hand
on a good day
lest we acknowledge
the ugly, green cast
around my right arm
called in for reinforcement
a woman I’d never met
filled in my FCAT answers
in a room with no time limit.
I imagine I pouted
assured of my prodigy, I read Harry Potter
at recess, announced I was Harvard-bound
destined to teach a fifth grade class,
so sure I could make my world my own
I spent Saturdays at my father’s apartment
typing the first chapter to a memoir
mostly because he lacked cable
and internet
I also played solitaire & dreamed
of making a connection
sleeping in the hot Orlando sun
hoping he might knock,
tell the truth for once
or at least a more exciting lie.
My radial bone, encouraged by youth
mended quickly, stronger
than before—my words more steady on the page
just in time for sixth grade
or as I knew it: reality
finding new,
more threatening ways
to fall off a scooter
on a driveway with no obvious risk.
*****
Cocoa Beach
I was in my yellow bikini
the one that you loved
on our puppy-first-date
and you told me
your grandmother drank too much
and I think I tried to understand
because I loved the way the shells
scraped my skin too hard, left marks
& how you loved my yellow bikini.
You said you didn’t like the way
the water made you feel
about geography
that I could point
and that’d be Australia
that you were always here
and my head was always there.
But at the beach we loved each other
if only because of my yellow bikini
and that I loved to be loved.
Bio
Selena Cotte is a poet & shapeshifter born in Orlando and raised online. Her work can be found in journals such as Hobart, Juked, and Group Chat Review.
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