perhappened mag
issue 4: MIXTAPE
on listening to
‘that’s how i got
to memphis’
LOISA FENICHELL
Oh. This song is so good. How sometimes sugar
sticks to the glass of lemonade like leaving.
When Tom T. Hall sings about Memphis, I wish
it would have been me sleeping in your room with
the chickens roosting in the coop in your yard.
I would have been so domesticated, believing
in God. There were times when I went nights
without rest, holding onto how you lay curled
to your side like a bolt of flame. It is true that every
time the world grew dark, another secret was revealed:
like the days when I wanted to be a priest, refusing food
because I was never meant to hibernate. Or how once
I drank all of the water in the glass, left none for you --
of course, it had been an accident, all my life having
been succumbed by the type of thirst only read about
in fairytales. Then wondering is there such a thing
as to be gentle when trying to make love to the one
person you never wanted to be with: I was very young,
could not even decide on the kind of bagel I wanted
to eat for breakfast. You played a guitar, years ago, so
articulate I wanted to stare at you like a philosopher. I
made a language out of a city, to comprehend that it was
always possible to read a paperback out on the roof, which
never went to rot, even after sitting so hard in the bared-out sun.
sticks to the glass of lemonade like leaving.
When Tom T. Hall sings about Memphis, I wish
it would have been me sleeping in your room with
the chickens roosting in the coop in your yard.
I would have been so domesticated, believing
in God. There were times when I went nights
without rest, holding onto how you lay curled
to your side like a bolt of flame. It is true that every
time the world grew dark, another secret was revealed:
like the days when I wanted to be a priest, refusing food
because I was never meant to hibernate. Or how once
I drank all of the water in the glass, left none for you --
of course, it had been an accident, all my life having
been succumbed by the type of thirst only read about
in fairytales. Then wondering is there such a thing
as to be gentle when trying to make love to the one
person you never wanted to be with: I was very young,
could not even decide on the kind of bagel I wanted
to eat for breakfast. You played a guitar, years ago, so
articulate I wanted to stare at you like a philosopher. I
made a language out of a city, to comprehend that it was
always possible to read a paperback out on the roof, which
never went to rot, even after sitting so hard in the bared-out sun.
Loisa Fenichell holds a BA from SUNY Purchase College, where she studied Creative Writing and Literature. Her work has been featured or is forthcoming in various publications, such as The Winter Tangerine Review, The Rising Phoenix Review, The Nervous Breakdown, and No Contact Mag. Her debut collection, 'all these urban fields,' was published by nothing to say press. She will be an MFA candidate at Saint Mary's College of California come Fall. Instagram: @loisa_fenichell; website: loisafenichell.com.