Type I knows where he is going.
His compass always reads true North.
He never fails
to adjust his readings
for the magnetic declination.
Still, he follows the stars, just in case;
to freedom from Nor’Easters, and heat
hotter than hatch chiles,
to where the mode temperature
is 75 degrees. Here, he is like
He never fails, and thanks God
for blessing him with natural talent.
He harbors conservative values,
which both serves and disserves
He imagines me pregnant
with his second child,
from our second date,
and yet, second guesses
my experience of my body
He wants to own property
to build equity — for himself
and lead a rich, rewarding life.
He reaps reward from going it
alone; He wants to be alone
He senses my insecure attachment
and takes advantage.
“Together forever,” whispered
between the sheets — my quick release. Baby, Imma roll until my wheels fall off.
His fatal flaw —
Type 2 is a perpetual manchild.
He makes dirty jokes,
and I blush.
He puts me the center
of his speculative fiction,
and I blush.
Of his universe, I am
the penultimate center,
after his capital “A”
He demands to be taken
He demands to be Dom’d
by his Good Little Girl.
He makes a bad feminist of me.
He makes a good listener of me,
Reciting “The Raven,” hands
aloft — my perch.
He senses my desire to nest,
And takes advantage. Nevermore, my Lenore, will you stand at the shore, watching the sunset. You will float on boughs of willow that I twist up with Photoshop.
There is Art in artificiality,
and also bad aftertaste.
I can taste his cigarettes
from the next room. Here, he is like
and I? — like a fish, I drag
my belly across the shore
on the off-chance
I will find a puddle
reflecting His bright light.
Type 3 speaks Spanish.
He is a global citizen and voluntour.
He says “Colombia changed my life,”
and I do not call bullshit.
He is the type to ride a bull,
to ride into thrashing wind
on his single-speed bicycle.
I saw him buck a tree once,
and never wanted to fuck
someone so badly.
His arms, lean and thin
pinned me to the trunk
of his car, which is the type,
I imagine us hopping into.
His Delorean transports us
back to a future where
simple living is anything
He speaks in future tense
and first-person singular.
I can not tell if he is interested
This scares the shit out of me,
as does leaving my sacred objects
on the edge of Route 66.
He senses that I am possessive,
and takes advantage.
He tucks found wildflowers
behind my ears, and holds
his chin to them, like buttercups. Everything yellow is yours.
He only wears earth tones.
Still, I wear bright makeup
He hates it, yet shows nothing
but respect. Here, he is unlike
my father — unlike anyone
who has loved me
My precocious start at poetry writing was inspired by Little House on the Prairie, The Secret Garden, and other stories of girls living in isolated childhoods, and surviving, by the strength of their inner voices. Through writing, I could transcend the mundane exterior of my experience, and be a very, very deep person. It was and remains the foundation of my confidence.
At the same time, it was and remains what makes me odd. As a writer, and especially as poet, I have always found myself rejecting those labels. No one wants to be accused of comparing themselves to Shakespeare or Sylvia Plath*, which can feel inevitable given the scant number of poets with a foot in popular culture. And so, my response to “Are you a poet?” still sounds something like:
“Oh. Me? Um…yea, I guess.”
To an extent, I am still trying to hide from my father that I did not earn a certificate in plumbing, per his advice, but, rather, a four-year degree in English, and $20k in debt. Yet, that degree has been my ticket from the town to the city, from walking in the rain to, well, more walking in the rain; to becoming the extraordinary YA heroine that I envisioned myself to be. Now that my bildungsroman is complete, my story is looking for supporting characters in the form of friends, mentors, and chosen family.
Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, it is the moldy strawberry
At the bottom of the basket. Full of beans,
I pick a peck more, and jump. Inside,
There is a moth developing, a roly poly
Now, and brown, but aspiring to gray,
If only for a few days, at summer’s
End, when the first cool, but frostless
Night ushers in the red and purple
And blackened fruit, which one (?)
Should not eat. I am not one.
They tell me to be she, who sheds
Her coat, and waits for the foliage
to turn yellow; I wait outside —
A balding hill of potatoes, turned
Green, through osmosis (?)
Of the clippings on this murder
Of crows. Interrogate them
Regarding the spots and rot, beg:
“What is going on with my garden?”
Roots and shoots and leaves, but
No children, excepting/accepting
Those born still or imperfect.
“Am I too old?”
At twenty-five, one should be quiet
About her fears of impotence and death.
I feel that I am not one, but two times,
And change. I change the way my hands
Look: she has become unstuck in time is Of the essence: a term used in Business,
Real Estate, and Agriculture, namely
In the period between IUD removal
And the encroachment of invasives.
Is seven years enough to determine
how many rows : how many roses
will produce the best returns?
Return me to childhood, in early September
When the next season was growing season,
And, so too, the next and next;
When my one-track mind could focus
On the present, and the presents
That I might open on my birthday;
🎶 Happy Last Day of Summer 🎶
When I could tune out their cracking
Corn, and care for nothing, but
Shortcake, with strawberries and
Cream. It would seem so strange,
Life, but a dream.