Spinning

When you were 9 you rode
The Rotor at Six Flags over & over,
as your parents watched
from the observation deck.
You relished the freedom of no seatbelt,
as the cylinder spun faster & faster,
pinned your body to the wall. As the floor
dropped, you stayed stuck, content
with going in circles.

Earth has rotated 14,000 or so days since then
& you hear they have retired The Rotor,
renamed it The Gravitron, given everyone
their own seats & safety harnesses.
& your parents aren’t around anymore
& your kids are no longer kids
& you have no desire
to go to an amusement park.
Had your share of pregnancies & flus
& food poisonings & one too many
margaritas to ever be caught dead
winding up a swing.

Your head still spins at 2:00AM.
You hate going in these loops,
wish you had the power to stop
twisting outcomes again &
again, replaying regret after regret,
as you sink into the vertigo
of morning, bracing for the moment
when the ride will start too slow,
when you slide to the floor—

It’s Saturday somewhere in the 70s

& you are watching Scooby Doo
in an un-airconditioned den
on a tiny black & white TV
with suspect reception.
You are eating SpaghettiOs with franks
& Cheez Whiz that sprays out
of an aerosol can right
into your mouth
& you’re glued to a show
where the ghosts are not real.

Mom appears & promises
to take you to the town pool later,
as she fills a plastic pebbled tumbler
with Hi-C Orange Lavaburst
on your folding floral metal tray.
You tell her you would take this over
Minute Maid concentrate any day,
wish this cup could stay full forever,
as you down the sweetness—

& the ending where Fred unmasks
the villain in the campy sheet disguise
does not yet disappoint,
& Current You can’t recall the color
of the couch, carpet, curtains,
when you watched a cartoon last,
when you were this satisfied,

when Mom stopped pouring—

You find yourself in this living

room with a blue wall to wall shag rug that hasn’t been vacuumed in a hot minute.
Not the slate millennial cool blue, but a boomer eye shadow hue
you wouldn’t be caught dead wearing.

& despite the normal wear & tear, some flattening of the pile, the carpet’s held up,
unlike the green granite countertops, corner computer desk & built in
TV cabinet with VCR no one has a need for anymore.

& as you assess the way past its prime putty & primer & paint,
you find a floor to ceiling mirror. & this one is so clear,
it swallows everything except you.

& you remember just before you had fallen asleep you were on TikTok
scrolling past the This is Fifty trend & that woman who got a deep
plane facelift in Guadalajara, Mexico

& Kris Jenner’s remodeled face, & 30-somethings after 40-somethings
begging strangers to tell them how old they really look, as they
claim to want the public’s unfiltered opinion

& you notice there are no windows or doors to escape here, no extras to confirm
whether you’re the main character or the unreliable narrator
because maybe you don’t want the truth

as you turn to the vanilla Yankee Candle’s flicker that dutifully conceals the sag
of the worn leather couch, the droop of the ruffled drape,
the water stains on the popcorn ceiling

that you are in no rush to replace—

I heard Big Brother 27 houseguest Mickey Lee passed away

& even though it’s been a few seasons since I caught an episode,
been twenty-one Julys since I paid for the 24/7 live feed,
her death really shook me.
Because BB was the yearly TV ritual that kick-started my summer,
because Mickie was only thirty-five,
because I was twenty-nine when I started watching religiously,
rooting for my favorites to survive week after week,
because I totally wanted to go on this show
but I thought I was too old.
Because how could this show be on for twenty-seven summers?
Because my kids used to have nothing to do
but watch Big Brother with me four nights a week,
because they are no longer kids, or teens,
or living with me.
I wanted to be HOH, possess the POV, avoid eviction
at least until August,
Play BB Comics & the Slip N Slide Comp & OTEV,
Get roasted by the Zingbot, dish in the Diary Room,
somehow manage not to eat slop.
Be as cool as Dr Will & Cody & Dan & Derrick & Janelle.
Be part of a winning alliance, not be anybody’s pawn.
Escape my own reality—
Saw a clip today on TikTok where another contestant read Mickie’s palm,
said her lifeline was kinda short.
Mickie quipped, Does that mean I’m going to die early?
& they all laughed it off because they couldn’t
possibly expect the unexpected.
Learned Will & Morgan were players
who formed an alliance with Mickie
but ultimately flipped their vote because someone
always gets thrown under the bus in reality
TV & she was blindsided by their betrayal
& let’s face it: These are always the juiciest episodes.
& her Instagram bio says America’s Fav Micktator,
her final post, Dec 17: Just another day being outside
& it’s strange to think she spent her last summer inside
the BB house, while I binged Love Island Season 7,
predicting Amaya Papaya & Chris’s journey would end
long before Andy Cohen’s reunion show in August—

You Swore Nothing Could Wipe the Smile

After Francis Bacon’s Study for Portrait VII

The harness locks,
and already your body
knows the prayer
& nighttime
makes turns
seem sharper
& you can’t see
where the track
heads but you feel
each rib crack
and surrender
to acceleration.

And right before
the rollercoaster drops
the mounted camera
snaps, captures you
mid-shatter:
Negative G-forced
face stretched,
hair suspended
mouth convulsed
into primal cry.

After you will laugh
when you view
the proof
breathlessly
proclaiming:

This is what I live for.

Victoria Nordlund is the Poet Laureate of Glastonbury, CT, and lead master teaching artist of The Nook Farm Writers Collaborative at The Mark Twain House & Museum. Her poetry collections Wine-Dark Sea and Binge Watching Winter on Mute were published by Main Street Rag. She is a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize Nominee whose work has appeared in Rust+Moth, Chestnut Review, trampset, and elsewhere. Visit her at VictoriaNordlund.com