‘When Do We Become Naked?’, ‘Laika’ & ‘no one mourns the wicked’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

When Do We Become Naked?

After a woman’s lips dripped with sweet juice
down her breasts, to her feet
They locked her away, and make her submit
leaving the snake unscathed
Eve is not my mother. but in a way
i know her, i know her
I know what it is to realize
that you are naked
At four, I stood on a chair
gleefully mimicking the dancing waiters
Before a tight hand grasped my wrist
and pulled me back to my seat
A knot in my stomach twisted
in a dreadfully similar fashion
The day a man took inventory of my body
and hollered out the window of his pickup truck
We are born naked, we die clothed,
and somewhere in-between we are made small
A little girl who whoops loudly and takes up space
shrinks quietly into the corner
But today, I find myself alone quite often
my body free of fabric
So when I wash my face, I allow water to drip
down my breasts, to my feet
And there are no snakes to bite my ankles.

Laika

Was it cold on the streets of Moscow
foraging for crumbs of sustenance
when they found you and brought you home
to the labs, shrinking your cage smaller and smaller
When they shoved you into the centrifuge
spinning while they played scary noises,
cut open your body, and shoved in tubes and wires
just to smile and sew you up, sealed as tight as fate
When one of them took pity on you
and brought you home to play fetch
with laughing children in a lazy green field
the last sunset you would ever see?
They chose you for your wagging tail
your naivety, your blind trust
longing for something greater
than scouring the trash for scraps
Something greater than you could imagine
cowering in the frozen alleys, playing
hide n’ seek with the cruel neighborhood boys
hidden, when all you wanted was to be seen
Just to be imprisoned and inspected for their senseless war,
man-made horrors you would never understand
displayed like the statue they would erect in your memory,
fifty years after your fall from grace
In your last moments, floating among the stars
just four little paws and a wagging tail
wondering where everybody had gone
for the first time, were you finally warm?

no one mourns the wicked

i suppose embalming was a waste
visiting hours are empty and my picture
is cut out of every smiling collage
yet from my open casket, i gaze upon
the twisted agony in your eyes,
the hesitation in your dissociation
wishing i could smear the blood
from your wounds onto my face
beg for absolution and grace
but haunting cannot bring us together
so i do not rattle my chains
when your clock strikes midnight
instead, i sink into my coffin
and three ghosts visit me instead
the past, the present, and the mistake i have not yet made
imagining what it would be like
to call your mother
and tell her i love you more
than i’ve ever loved anyone
who has touched my bare chest
or whose lips have brushed my own

Vivianne Clark resides in Omaha, Nebraska. Her creative work explores themes of feminism, depression, and intimacy. She is currently studying English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Clark loves playing the saxophone in the Cornhusker Marching Band and cozy nights inside with a good book.