June 13, 2011 § Leave a comment
When I stood in front of the bathroom mirror,
angry, cutting my hair short,
all I could hear was the clean zip of the scissors closing,
and your voice from over a year ago,
“Fat girls look better with long hair.”
June 9, 2011 § Leave a comment
Gender. Gender identity, gender roles, the gender binary, gender benders, gender-appropriate bathrooms, gender-specific products, and so forth. I am obsessed.
June 1, 2011 § Leave a comment
He gives you money
monthly, in hopes that you start
loving him to bits.
May 10, 2011 § 2 Comments
They shake hands,
say ” I am surprised to see you here.”
and it is awkward.
He invites her to sit down, asks her how her mother is, tells her she looks good.
She is embarrased. She stirs the straw in her tea many times.
He says he is learning how to cook something besides ramen noodles,
she says she has a new lamb recipe she wants to try.
She is eyeing him nervously, he is tapping his foot,
he says something about the stockmarket, she tries to follow along.
He lists all the Thai places in the area he likes to eat at,
she says she got a puppy since he left. He whips his head up. surprised.
“The empty was too big without you.” She said.
He says “I know.”
He says he hasn’t been with anyone since her, she says no one else kisses her collarbones the way he did,
He says “We could have been lovely together,”
She says “we were.”
May 7, 2011 § Leave a comment
I head-edited a poem while I was driving to my parents house. I don’t feel like typing it.
May 6, 2011 § 2 Comments
When they called her back, Anna smiled politely and said thank you. In the back room was Beth, who smiled and introduced herself, like she does every time. “Hi, my name is Beth, I’ll be washing your hair today.” Anna smilled, said a very curt hello. Beth guided her into a chair, where Anna sat. Beth turned on the warm water and began to gently massage shampoo into Anna’s hair.
This time, like every time, Anna wanted to say thank you to Beth. She wanted to say that Beth was the only person to touch her head this gently in years, and that the life of the widow was a lonely one. But Anna didn’t say anything. Beth was used to this. She scrubbed Anna’s hair silently, and Anna closed her eyes, pretending that she was with her husband, James, and he was washing her hair, massaging her head gently, kissing her forhead, laughing.
It was easier back then, when she was younger, her hair a startling jet black, her husband by her side. But now her hair is grey, thin, and (just like the rest of her body) so often untouched by human hands.
Every six weeks, Anna leaves her house for the first time in six weeks. She drives 40 miles per hour down the interstate, to a small hair salon. Beth always shampoos her hair, and Cassandrra always cuts it. More than anything, Anna likes this stability, and the ease that comes with being touched by human hands. Cassandra and Beth are used to her comfortable silence, and Anna likes it. She loves the chatter of the other clients, the hum of the hair dryer, the clean, floral scents.
“What are we doing with your hair today, Anna?” Asks Cassandra.
“Oh, the usual.”
Cassandra gently combs Annas waist-length grey hair. She trims the split ends, rolls her hair into curlers.
When she was finished, Anna paid the lady at the front desk.
“I hate touching her head” whispered Beth to Cassandra. “It’s full of dirt and tangles.” I swear it turns six shades lighter every time I wash it.”
Cassandra says “I know.”
Anna gets into her car, drives forty miles an hour back down the interstate, and to her home. She pulls six weeks worth of mail from her mailbox, walks into the house, and reads it, sitting horribly alone at a kitchen table that has room for two.
Poem number 4, in which Sarah offers you nothing but a list of compound words that are profound when pondered on, together or seperately.
May 4, 2011 § Leave a comment
May 3, 2011 § Leave a comment
I am learning about heartbreak, I am learning about family.
There is a hurricane just outside my bedroom door.
It is you, and your father,
a hurricane and a thunderstorm.
You want to go back to your class, to your friends, to normalcy.
He says no.
He says you don’t have friends, no one wants to be your friend because
they are afraid of you.
This is true,
but it’s an aweful thing to say to a kid.
I like watching you,
because I think I would be you if I was not so afraid and silent and pensive.
There is little I can say that would truely make things better for you.
No one can respect your intelligence, nor can they look past your social awkwardness.
This is middle school.
You say you want to see your friends.
I hear you punch walls, yell, your voice thick and faltering because you are crying.
You are a hurricane.
I hear the undescribable noise of glass shattering, the low klunk of books thrown from a shelf, your dog whining,
the crash of a block tower being knocked down.
and I am jealous because I could not produce those symtpoms of emotion.
Even when I try.
I want to learn the secret of your ability to release,
because (let’s face it)
no one minds a title wave
on a shore that is already empty.
May 3, 2011 § Leave a comment
I’m wearing your hand-me-down clothes.
They fit like a second skin,
a comfy, well-worn pair of jeans.
I’ve washed them twice and they still smell like you.
At night I slip on your pajamas,
I go to sleep, I slip on your dreams.
I wake up, put your jeans back on and some of your old hair spray.
I slip on your old habits, but those I am pulling on slowly.
A cigarrette here, a little alcohol there,
I haven’t put them on all the way
I look like you, feel like you, smell like you, taste like you, act like you,
I like it a lot more than I thought I would.