You make me feel
like Badger brew’s caramel apple cider is free
but only for me because I see things

like how you fiddle with your pen before a test
–who uses a pen in math anyway?-
or the way your eyes are flecked with green
You make me feel, for once, that I’m only 17

We can have a conversation
in whispers and doodles
when the teacher’s not looking
or sing old-time rock out of key
and sometimes we can just sit
and be

You are my fixation,
my liberation, devastation, temptation, stimulation

Bring it on Lex! I’ve got superman by my side
He’ll blow you away with his laser-beam eyes
We’ll travel the world
with each postcard we spy as we walk down the pier
When you’re around death isn’t as near

But the sad thing is
by this time next year
you’ll be out east while I’m
stuck right here.
But I will have no tears to shed

The worst part?
That you’ll have no clue
that this poem is one I wrote
for you.

Musty curtains with a decade of dust
And a pock-marked floor
A dressing room door that won’t quite shut
Graffiti on the green-room walls
A secret door that leads to the boiler room

But I know every story this place has to tell
I know every line, and cue
Each chord and step and prop for the action crew
My costume fits just right and
I am so ready for this night to just begin

What I love is that you get to be someone different than you
See things from another’s point of view
Dress like you’re a tree sprite, a go-go dancer, or a chivalrous knight

It’s odd but by being someone else, you seem to be the purest form of yourself

After weeks of preparing I’ve learned the whole thing
My lines, his theirs hers, but I can’t seem to remember what happens first
My mind goes blank and I fear the worst

I’ve been totally chilled all day, like a Colorado peak.
But for some reason my cool has melted, triggering an avalanche of panic.
All the moisture in my mouth has migrated to my hands

I know this, my first line is……… “hi?”
No that’s not it, man, what can it be?
I knew I should have brought my script with me.

Did I place my props? Where’d I put my shoes?
Is my entrance locked? It is!! What do I do?
Oh wait, that’s the closet.

I glance at the director and smile
I feel like I’ve just walked for miles and miles
I’m exhausted and I haven’t even begun

The lights go up
This is where I belong

What ever happened to Peter Eckstrom
the kid who sat next to me in 7th grade English?
I think he spoke only 14 words to me the whole year

He didn't join any clubs
or sports
He didn't go to dances
or football games.
He just quietly took notes in 7th grade English.

Then we left for summer
I made him sign my yearbook
because it was 7th grade and it was a big deal
even if his picture was missing from the pages.

but he never came back
I looked for him in 8th grade English
I asked around school
but no one seemed to know

He just blew away like dust,
leaving no trace
no evidence that he had existed
except the scrawled signature
on the back page of my yearbook

What ever happened to Peter Eckstrom?

This body you see in from of you
Is only the shell of who I am
Protecting me from those who wish to harm

You don’t know the people I love
You don’t realize that the comma I missed in my essay
was a secret rebellion against grammarians

I’m a sister, I’m a sinner
I’m a girl who’s trying to find her keys
I’m a Mormon, I’m a nerdfighter
And I do what I please

I need a little bit of pizza
a lot of love
And I need to get OUT of this town

I wear pajama pants
Every. Single. Tuesday.
Because sometimes I need to sleep in another 12 minutes

I write about how I feel
How I think
And what’s real

I don’t need to swear
to sound like I know what I’m talking about

This is my poetry
This is my life

And I’m not apologizing

I look down,
hoping to see something of interest.
All I see is the asphalt,
dark and glistening with the melted snow.
The aroma sparks a vision,
I close my eyes and breathe in the air.

It smells of 4th grade recess,
when real life seemed an eon away.
The rhythmic tap of jump ropes
and the smack of sneakers halts
as I open my eyes
and I am brought back to the lot.

I wander around and happen to see
Thirteen damp cigarette butts,
two green stripes cling to their necks,
each is smoked to the filter.
I am reminded that we
are what I once considered old

In the corner of my eye
Sean spins himself on a patch of ice,
a child escapes from his smile.

I.
The book is on its pages
Face down
With a crackling spine.

II.
On a waiting room bench,
Sits the child's father,
Staring at an open book.

III.
Between the chapters
Are leave
And petals
Preserved for winter days.

IV.
A child
Is not
A poet
Nor a writer,
But a child can love a book.

V.
Wild, unspeakable thoughts torment his mind.
He only trusts the book to keep his secrets.

VI.
On Tuesday afternoon
The widow summits
The library steps
In search of a different story.
She will return next Tuesday.

VII.
A mother shares a book
With her daughter snug under the covers.
She knows her knight will defeat the dragon,
But still holds her breath.

VIII.
I read the opening lines
Penned carefully to make
The best first impression.
How many others have pondered these same words?

IX.
Rows of shelves of knotted oak
Willingly bear
Their burden of books.

X.
Why are chicken noodle soup
And a good book
The best remedies I know?

XI.
You are drawn to the book
With golden lettering,
And prepare to enter a new world

XII.
With each cackling flame another book dies.
Now there is nothing but ashes and memory;

XIII.
Yellowed pages
Cloaked in leather
And perfumed with ink.

To transform

I stare at the wild-eyed man in the mirror
his hair flops forward in defeat,
tired of the effort
tired of its mistaken identity

The clippers feel warm in my hand
my thoumb snaps the switch into place
and I feel the buzz run through me

I want this
to watch the locks fall
to stop being seen
as a vampire
and start to be seen as a person

Regarding the Buzz-cut**
I almost wish you had gone through with it.
Shaved your head,
removed the distracting locks.

Then maybe those who only saw
a figment of their imagination
would look past you

and I
who see your flaws
and victories
and bald beauty
could have you to myself