Virginia Konchan
Dear Victoria,
I’ve so often been called your name,
despite Victoria not being my name,
that I’m starting to confuse the two.
You: alter ego, doppelgänger, muse.
I picture you in a brothel. I picture you
in an art museum. I picture you saying
no to the yes man when he comes to call,
flouncing your purple tulle, or crinoline.
Victoria: a steady glucose drip in veins,
an apostate kneeling, a rose with thorns.
What my mother would have wished for
me, had she been well enough to wish.
I attract Geminis, but don’t get them,
Victoria: it’s part of my karmic wheel.
Could you offer some insight on that
matter, or any other matter, queen?
I could remove you forcibly from me,
purblind feline, but why rid myself
of the one good thing about me:
people confusing me with you?
When names and significations end,
I will be sitting near a dumpster on
some unfortunate street in America,
far away from the maddening crowd.
I will be silently chanting Victoria:
the undergarment to my destiny,
stock joke in a random exchange,
piercing blade in a cutthroat brawl.
African violet, Whitmanian lilac:
do you prefer cologne to perfume?
Half-witted half-woman, half-man:
you see, it’s you who need me now.
Virginia Konchan is the author of four poetry collections, including Bel Canto (Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2022), and Hallelujah Time (Véhicule Press, 2021), and a collection of short stories, Anatomical Gift, as well as coeditor of the craft anthology Marbles on the Floor: How to Assemble a Book of Poems (University of Akron Press, 2023). Her poems have appeared in The New Yorker, The New Republic, The Atlantic, and The Believer.
Return to March 2023 Edition
I’ve so often been called your name,
despite Victoria not being my name,
that I’m starting to confuse the two.
You: alter ego, doppelgänger, muse.
I picture you in a brothel. I picture you
in an art museum. I picture you saying
no to the yes man when he comes to call,
flouncing your purple tulle, or crinoline.
Victoria: a steady glucose drip in veins,
an apostate kneeling, a rose with thorns.
What my mother would have wished for
me, had she been well enough to wish.
I attract Geminis, but don’t get them,
Victoria: it’s part of my karmic wheel.
Could you offer some insight on that
matter, or any other matter, queen?
I could remove you forcibly from me,
purblind feline, but why rid myself
of the one good thing about me:
people confusing me with you?
When names and significations end,
I will be sitting near a dumpster on
some unfortunate street in America,
far away from the maddening crowd.
I will be silently chanting Victoria:
the undergarment to my destiny,
stock joke in a random exchange,
piercing blade in a cutthroat brawl.
African violet, Whitmanian lilac:
do you prefer cologne to perfume?
Half-witted half-woman, half-man:
you see, it’s you who need me now.
Virginia Konchan is the author of four poetry collections, including Bel Canto (Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2022), and Hallelujah Time (Véhicule Press, 2021), and a collection of short stories, Anatomical Gift, as well as coeditor of the craft anthology Marbles on the Floor: How to Assemble a Book of Poems (University of Akron Press, 2023). Her poems have appeared in The New Yorker, The New Republic, The Atlantic, and The Believer.
Return to March 2023 Edition