JD Debris
BOSSA NOVA WAS INVENTED IN A BATHROOM
Because the samba would no longer shower
Because João Gilberto spoke only in whispers
Because he hid behind the drawn curtains of the samba
Because two chords droning the samba’s silk unraveled
Because he holed up in his sister’s flat in Diamantina
Because he paid his rent in tangerines
Because he was, like the green-eyed monastery wolves, nocturnal
Because all to echo the washerwomen’s rhythm at the river
Because piled-up laundry was a sculpture of Medusa
Because remembering washboards, silks, & wicker
Because his bim boms ping-ponged off brittle, porcelain hexagons
Because drain flies zigzagged across nasal harmonics
Because the balladeer must go DOWN to THE RIVER ad infinitum
Because a faucet is no less a river than a river
Because the samba would no longer shower
Because João Gilberto spoke only in whispers
Because he hid behind the drawn curtains of the samba
Because two chords droning the samba’s silk unraveled
Because he holed up in his sister’s flat in Diamantina
Because he paid his rent in tangerines
Because he was, like the green-eyed monastery wolves, nocturnal
Because all to echo the washerwomen’s rhythm at the river
Because piled-up laundry was a sculpture of Medusa
Because remembering washboards, silks, & wicker
Because his bim boms ping-ponged off brittle, porcelain hexagons
Because drain flies zigzagged across nasal harmonics
Because the balladeer must go DOWN to THE RIVER ad infinitum
Because a faucet is no less a river than a river
LE BONHEUR
for Agnès
The weekend Agnès Varda died, you matched me
drink for drink in my attic-kitchen—one overflowing
skull-chalice of RELAX rosé for every whiskey-
ginger I ingested. In 1965, Agnès Varda shot a film
called Happiness, & like so many other early mornings,
that is what we drank & laughed to—near-delirium.
Told the story of trekking once from Central,
stopping for after-work cigars at Leavitt & Peirce,
then on to Harvard to hear Agnès Varda lecture.
Exhaling toxins by the Church St. exit, an Escalade
pulls up. A sunglassed, slicked, & suited chauffeur
extends a hand to abuelita Agnès, who eases
down, step by careful step, from SUV to ground.
There goes the godmother of the Nouvelle Vague,
winking at us as she passes! The story might as well end
right there (before I start fawning), with the gesture,
which is cinema, which is your arms around my neck
as you kiss me on a kitchen chair. I don’t remember
if I said this two or three drinks later,
but here’s what I got from Le Bonheur:
it’s all sunflowers & Mozart until somebody breaks
a vow. For now, we’re all overtime shifts, irregular gigs,
kisses between cracks in the hustle. My cinema?
It’s the sunrise & half-shut eyes through which
I watch you stretch, smooth shea butter over right
leg, then left. A goodbye kiss & you’re off to catch
the bus in sky-blue scrubs. Another shooting script:
you, scarved in silk against the pillowcase, streetlights
liquid through the blinds, I brush your forehead,
go chase a check across the bridge. Coming back
to find you in my sweats in front of mango peels
& an open endocrinology text, Bobby “Blue” Bland
from your facedown phone, your soft & citrus breath,
your nasal off-key hum-along, your thumb on a diagram of the adrenal gland.
Agnès was right, irising out to brightness between each scene--
before black, we fade to every color we can name.
for Agnès
The weekend Agnès Varda died, you matched me
drink for drink in my attic-kitchen—one overflowing
skull-chalice of RELAX rosé for every whiskey-
ginger I ingested. In 1965, Agnès Varda shot a film
called Happiness, & like so many other early mornings,
that is what we drank & laughed to—near-delirium.
Told the story of trekking once from Central,
stopping for after-work cigars at Leavitt & Peirce,
then on to Harvard to hear Agnès Varda lecture.
Exhaling toxins by the Church St. exit, an Escalade
pulls up. A sunglassed, slicked, & suited chauffeur
extends a hand to abuelita Agnès, who eases
down, step by careful step, from SUV to ground.
There goes the godmother of the Nouvelle Vague,
winking at us as she passes! The story might as well end
right there (before I start fawning), with the gesture,
which is cinema, which is your arms around my neck
as you kiss me on a kitchen chair. I don’t remember
if I said this two or three drinks later,
but here’s what I got from Le Bonheur:
it’s all sunflowers & Mozart until somebody breaks
a vow. For now, we’re all overtime shifts, irregular gigs,
kisses between cracks in the hustle. My cinema?
It’s the sunrise & half-shut eyes through which
I watch you stretch, smooth shea butter over right
leg, then left. A goodbye kiss & you’re off to catch
the bus in sky-blue scrubs. Another shooting script:
you, scarved in silk against the pillowcase, streetlights
liquid through the blinds, I brush your forehead,
go chase a check across the bridge. Coming back
to find you in my sweats in front of mango peels
& an open endocrinology text, Bobby “Blue” Bland
from your facedown phone, your soft & citrus breath,
your nasal off-key hum-along, your thumb on a diagram of the adrenal gland.
Agnès was right, irising out to brightness between each scene--
before black, we fade to every color we can name.
JD Debris writes poems, songs, and prose. He held the Goldwater Fellowship at NYU from 2018-20, where he completed his MFA. In 2020, his work was chosen by Ilya Kaminsky for Ploughshares' Emerging Writers Prize, and he was named to Narrative's 30 Below 30 list. His releases include the chapbook SPARRING (Salem State University Press, 2018) and the music albums BLACK MARKET ORGANS (Simple Truth Records, 2017) and JD DEBRIS MURDER CLUB (forthcoming).