The world is just waking up
And I finish the dishes
Ceremonially sweeping the floor.
Clearing the energy of last night
Making room for a new day to
Waft in
Over the fire escape.
Last night I was part
Of a Mini Passover Seder
Complete with Yam Shank
“The Vegetarian form of lamb shank!”
My quarter Jewish friend says cheerily.
When the Jew and the half Jew stare at her--
“Jewnet.com told me I could do it.”
I’m the Catholic girl in the room
But I’ve been that way since I was three
Attending my neighbor’s Passover Seder’s
Enjoying parsley with salt
And frequently finding the motzah
Lamenting that the body of Christ
Never tasted this good.
Our meal is on an old sewing table
Surrounding by books of Audrey Hepburn’s
Bambi eyed face forever staring,
While we laugh about a hairless kitten named
Pimple.
Or the fish named
Turkey and Pumpkin Pie,
Who once upon a time
Lived in a Salad Bowl.
“They were thanksgiving themed!”
“Did you get them on thanksgiving?”
“No, on my birthday in May”
Giggles erupt again.
The lesbian couple coos and
Lovingly congratulate each other on a great meal.
The roommate alternately sulks and
Makes a boisterous scene.
A character from Friends come to life.
I’m watching mostly, couch surfing for the evening.
“How do you know No-No again?”
“We went to high school together”
“Ooo- you grew up together!”
Yeah- sort of.
We’re about to have dessert when
The roommate grows quiet and grabs a cigarette.
Noelia interrupts:
“You’ll throw up Anna”
After a scuffle of youllregretthat’s
Noiwontleavemealone’s
“Fine, you’re an adult”
“Yes I am”.
Noelia exits with girlfriend.
Anna stares at me, smoke wafting out the window.
“You’re interesting”
The third time that’s been said to me in my life.
Each one as memorable as the last.
When I ask what she means--
“You seem full of secrets.”
“I’m shy at first” I explain
Wondering why it is that quiet
Is meant to be interesting.
I’m intrigued by the giggles, and the laughter
Zoe’s subtle jokes
Noelia’s loud need for things to be just so
How Anna says exactly what she wants.
…I am quiet.
It always happens,
When I’m staring at people
A little too closely
Or mulling things
In the distance.
I am not honest Anna
QuirkyClassy Noelia
Witty Zoe.
Interesting Sarah.
Implying there is oh so much they,
The audience of the world,
Do not know.
Interesting.
Unknown.
Sarah.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 7:47 AM UTC
"You're the Ariel to my Prospero"
He says grinning
with dagger pearl teeth
that could nibble my ear
or easily rip out my heart.
Ignorant of his mundanity
He does not know of those
who came before.
Names are relative.
"You're the Puck to my Oberon"
"You're the Tink to my Peter Pan"
Heard 'em all.
Plight of the Manic Pixie
Not Dream Girl.
Charming Sassy Childish
girl.
Sidekick Extraordinaire.
But lower than Robin to his Batman.
Messenger, Trickster, Mischief Maker.
Companion.
Adventurer.
with a temper ten times his size.
A power unnamed. Unused.
Never Enough.
Never enough
to Want to challenge her master.
ProsperoOberonPeter
I will drink the poison for you.
I will sink the ship.
I will find the ****** flower
and enchant the Fairy queen.
Follow orders, then twist them.
With some glittler and a devilish smile.
Crazy Tiny
girl.
Too pixie to hold on to
Catch me Boy!
Alreadycaughtnoneedtocatch.
Little ****** Manic Pixie
Yearning for a kiss
a touch
a word.
When you're a manic pixie
there's no trio
no male sidekick to choose
over
the hero.
But the hero gets the girl.
Manic Pixies live to serve.
Not dignified or wise enough for Royal Athena.
Not ruthless enough for the Dangerous Diana.
Without the darkness of the Morrigan.
Virginity isn't a choice.
It's part of the job description.
Could I be your ladybird?
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 11:46 AM UTC
Chandeliers of childhood
Clink above out heads
The crystals glitter and gleam
Singing ballads about
the day we first met
But my ribcage is tattooed
with your criticisms
And my sharp tongue
has left crisscross needlework
Patterns that trace your wrists
We both dangle pearl earrings
from our eye sockets
As our daggers flicker endlessly
in our gaping mouths
I watch you
Stuff your ears with cotton *****
From the stack on desk
Collected meticulously
To block out my metallic clashes
My left hand tries to take the
cotton out of my own ears
While my right ear stubbornly
Stuffs them back in
And my dagger makes such a clamor
That my pearl earrings turn to necklaces
Patchwork lungs burning
From the effort
I hope the strands break
So perhaps a pearl or two
Can roll to your dainty toes
But the chandelier's cracking
above our crowned heads
And both of us are too busy with cotton
to climb the gleaming ladder
to repair it.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
His fingers examine mine.
Large experienced hands
Smoothed by rivers of past experience.
Tracing, tripping on the stony boulders in my creek.
Please tell me a story they beg.
The creek whispers “What is in the black hat?”
His slanted eyes smile wickedly.
“Play me for it”
Rock. Paper. Scissor. Shoot.
Rock. Rock. Rock.
A magician’s slip of the hand.
Cheshire cat grins always win.
Paper triumphs over rock.
Once. Twice. Thrice.
My boulders try to Cut and Paste the paper.
Tell me a story. Please.
What happened to the black hat?
His eyes- transfix mine- watching them watch me.
A coin pulled out of my ear.
Glinting-mischievous- dare I say- caring.
One larger than the other.
His hand in mine.
Did his face just say that?
Explain the eyes magician.
What’s behind the black hat?
Why do the eyes slant?
Why can’t you see straight?
Why can’t I see you straight?
What is beneath the hat?
His finger traces my hips, my lips.
I talk. Talk. Cover it with talk.
Talk in circles- dance in- jab, retreat- spin.
Please. Story. Hat.
Two lips block black and white text.
The magician’s done it again.
Searching for the trick I whirl away.
What is in the hat?
I challenge.
Rock. Paper. Scissor. Shoot.
Scissor. Scissor.
Scissor never works.
Slip slit- out of fabric.
The rainbow scarf slips back up the sleeve.
His eyelashes blink
Remind me forget forget.
White bunnies spin in my eyes.
One eye bigger than the other.
No story to see.
Black Hat.
The white bunny hops back in the hat.
Where did it go?
My finger, traces, digs, his lips.
Praying. Open. Speak.
Hat. Black Hat. Hat.
Cheshire cats don’t speak. Just stare.
River Hands circle my waist.
A bouquet pulled out of his sleeve.
Before he can—stare
Boulders BLOCK. Hands over the eyes.
No more tricks.
No more tricks.
“Wanna play?”
Rock. Paper. Scissor. Shoot.
Paper? Paper? Paper?
I fall into the black hat.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 10:19 AM UTC
Try not to make eye contact
And monitor your breath
If you breathe too quickly
The little birds escape
With a song so pitiful
That all would stop to watch
The flock spiral around rooftops
Into the air searching for
An escape from the sky.
Breath too deeply
And an injured wildcat
Caterwauling like--
A trash disposal when clogged
Limps through the
Aisle of the metro train,
Looking back and forth
At the crowded intersection,
Eyes fixed on the bit of grass
In front of the park bench.
Searching for something
She can’t remember
She lost.
Count your breaths, but
Loosen your irises
And allow the tiny
Pearls that reflect the world
Roll like little boys marbles
Over your cheeks
Leaving delicate trails in
Their absence. Lines
Written in clear ink
Formed by glittering
Salt dust.
One by one
Marking a rivulet of pain that
Does not betray you.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 11:03 AM UTC
My hands fly across the key board as I search around.
Not for anything in particular, just watching people cross in front of my eyesight.
A girl walking in circles in a blue fleecy vest, talking on the phone.
I remember my father telling me the importance of leaning to type without having to look at the keyboard.
I thought he was stupid.
I thought it was silly.
I ****** at typing.
I still use three fingers only, mainly.
Pinky for the shift key occasionally.
Right ring finger for the return key.
I don’t even use the thumb for the space bar
Like you’re supposed to-
I use my right pointer finger.
I always had to endure the agony of typing with
The Box
Over my fingers in elementary school.
My best friend can recreate fond memories of a 10-year-old me
Squeezing
My eyeballs shut,
Lining up my fingers, my tongue sticking out,
Only to discover
I had typed everything
Wrong
Start over.
But having entered the college age.
I’m happy to be able to
Glance
Around
While I work.
Makes it seem like some automaton is recording my thoughts, which I don’t even have to think About as I
Consider a flowerpot full of yellow flowers…pansies?
So the poet was right.
He was always looking out windows.
Like all his poems would come streaming through them.
Bits of cloudy thoughts captured on paper, because his
Eyes were free to wander.
Silly poet.
Silly little girl.
Asdf
Lkjh
G
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 11:00 PM UTC