Eduardo C. Corral

Eduardo C. Corral, born February 25, 1973, is an American poet and MFA Assistant Professor in the Department of English at NC State University. His first collection, Slow Lightning, published by Yale University Press, was the winner of the 2011 Yale Younger Series Poets award, making him the first Latino recipient of this prize. His 2020 work, guillotine, was awarded the 2021 Lambda Literary Award for gay poetry and was longlisted for the 2020 National Book Award for Poetry.

 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MY HUNGERS
Eduardo C. Corral

His beard: an avalanche of   honey,
                   an avalanche
of  thorns. In a bar too close to the Pacific,
                            he said, “I don’t love you,
               but not because I
couldn’t be attracted to you.” Liar—
                                     even my soul
is potbellied. Thinness,
         in my mind, equals the gay men
                                      on the nightly news.
        Kissed by death & public scorn.
The anchorman declaring,
                             “Weight loss is one
        of the first symptoms.” The Portuguese
have a word for imaginary, never-
                   to-be-experienced love.
                                      Whoop-de-doo.
        “I don’t love you,” he said.
The words flung him back—
                            in his eyes, I saw it—
         to another bar
where a woman sidestepped his desire.
                  Another hunger.
                                    Our friendship.
In tenth grade, weeks after
                             my first kiss, my mother
said, “You’re looking thinner.”
         That evening, I smuggled a cake
                                      into my room.
I ate it with my hands,
                   licked buttercream off
                            my thumbs until I puked.
         Desire with no future,
bitter longing—
                   I starve myself  by yearning
          for intimacy that doesn’t
                                        & won’t exist.
Holding hands on a ferry. Tracing,
                   with the tip of my tongue,
a  jawline. In a bar too close
                                to the Pacific, he said,
“I don’t love you, but not
          because I couldn’t be attracted to you.”
                                    His beard:
an avalanche of thorns,
                  an avalanche of honey.
 
=====
 
CEREMONIAL
Eduardo C. Corral
 
 

                         Delirious,
touch-starved,
             I pinch a mole
                          on my skin, pull it
off, like a bead—
             I pinch & pull until
                          I am holding
a black rosary. Prayer
             will not cool
                          my fever.
Prayer will not
             melt my belly fat,
                         will not thin
my thighs.

                         A copper-
faced man once
             called me beautiful.
                         Stupid,
stupid man.
             I am obese. I am
                         worthless.
I can still feel
             his thumb—
                          warm,
burled—moving
             in my mouth.
                          His thumbnail
a flake

                          of sugar
he would not
             allow me to swallow.
                          Desperate
for the sting of snow
             on my skin,
                          rosary
tight in my fist,
              I walk into
                          a closet, crawl
into a wedding dress.
                         Oh Lord,
here I am.