From The Olga Poems

Carolyn Saxby

Olga-Helga, I value

your stuff. With my odalisque
curves, my delirious
cockatiel heart

Be aware: I’m unusual. Oh

I’m the stuffer
who’ll stuff you
to gills
with (my) gold


You bagged

me good without
soiling your prawns, Olga-
Helga. I drift
through the aqueous blue. Toodle-
loo, toodle-loo. You
bagged me, I bit you.
You brained me, I made you
a chainsaw for felling
trees. Isn’t love? Such a
lowly condition. I’m a
great big
for you, and you
you’re my


I’ve done my time in the hippodrome, working

shit out. I’m the blonde
with blue eyes, I’m Dick,
the dining room furniture
king, I’m a sad ol’ dissolute
seraphim. Olga, come
hither and do
what agrarian villagers
do. I keep
my hands whiter
than napkins, myself. I’m
the brain,
and a basketcase, baby. Don’t shy away—
even you
can come
closer, come
write to me
on my


I’ve been kinda bored

I’ve been taking
a bunch
of hot/funny photos. Should I
post them
all over
your rubbery breasts? That’s
not talk from a “dying world”
Olga—that’s straight
from the cradle of life/sex/death. Here I am
banked on the river,
my hair. Where are you
little silver-scaled
bird, immaterial
and shivering

eating words


Olga, you linger

and cling
to the hive, to that
dirty unworthy metropolis.
Girl, you go
strutting around.
Like a slattern. Doggy.
Effete. The world
brings plague
to its smuttiest squirrels while you
down at Wing Stop. Take a
fetuslike look
into space; now sit
with the blood
and the triumph
of brain. Abide

in that place. Down the yellowbrick road
we were Pilates and

once we were wholly


Olga Olga Olga your Zoloft is mine

I love you
like Emma. I love you like
Pride. I love you like Jane Austen
dollars, I love
to insert you in snide
conversations with fuckwads
colleagues of mine. Alas
we are not
metatarsal, we bones
we belong
in the hands. Muscled shut
you’re shinola-won’t-
into-my-life. Mrs. Darling
my privy
you’re privy
to all whom the jillions


Lo in the water, Olga,

you hold me. How long is your chain and how barbed
your panoptic maw

am I heavy to bear & contain am I human or

something that ruts. Rusts. And disintegrates. Now
I’m a merman coming
apart. Now a poisonous

cloud of red dust. I was exhaled
into the ducts
and then
and then

I blew up


Olga, who dresses

your hair, and who plucked
that purple-black
plumage you wear
from the ether? Not I—
I’m a decorous

turd. A dusted-down
armored-up suit
of conditions. As in: if you
have saturnine grace

if you’ve been false
or estranged

if you’ve arranged a bamboozle: I’ll swaddle you

in my wet clinging metal. It’s gentle.
Filigree. Silvery. Still
it’s a chain


Olga, your kung pao

chicken is here. To lay
waste to your bowels. Grab
a glacier! Embrace it! Its surface
with shit from the birds
of the centuries. Drink
the deep blue. Find it
cooling, steady. Let it
irrigate all
your canals, let it
until only bare rock
and your ironclad

Image Credits: Carolyn Saxby