Thursday, April 16, 2015

NaPoWriMo #15

We've reached the downside of April, halfway there!

Haven't had the chance to read much these past few days.

After looking through my poetry-writing options for day #15, I decided to go with Magalay.

Her prompt went something like this:  Where were you when you were fifteen? What did you love and/or hate about the place? For Day 15 of NaPoWriMo with Magaly Guerrero 2015Write a poem about the town or city where you spent the fifteenth year of your life. If a poem about said place doesn’t move your muse, try something memorable that happened when you were that age. Introduce us to fifteen-year-old you.

Here is my resulting poem:

The Sister-Selves

The fifteenth summer
Meant swim parties,
Complete days cashing
Their un-exchangeable
Currency against my
Skin, a stiff branding.
But, sore as a bad night,
My shoulders would not
Keep me from the
Tuesday after-hours, familiar
Smell of paper from the
Library rotary spinning
Fast against the pads of
My fingers, an excited sting
Landing their smooth,
Yellow faces on pages
Full of Poe and Plath.

It’s impossible to be lost
When you mean to be…
The backyard Chinese trees
Embraced my sticky backrest
Against the weary 88 degrees,
The air was hot as Hades
But I was barely there.
I was washing dishes
In a dim-lit flat
Somewhere in Yorkshire,
Drunk on the bitter pills
Of depression and the
Palm-slap of a lover’s
Last leave-taking.

On Friday night’s
I’d paint my toes, pink
As ten wondering fairies,
Don my tie dye shirts,
Wrap plastic bracelets
Around each wrist and
Willingly place my fate
Into the macho whim
Of whatever sixteen-year-old
Boy drove too fast
For country-road curves,
Always parking beneath
Whatever trees would
Shade the windshield
And pushing their open lips
Toward my mouthful
Of prose, un-kissable.
Most of the time they
Drove me home, angry
That their hands never
Teased the hem of my skirt,
And I was always happy
To let them go, waving
Like an untouched Jezebel
From the porch steps
As they spun their tires west.

There was no streaming city
Of nightlife or neon lights
In my giddy summer of fifteen.
And happily, as they nestled into
The soft spaces between my ribs,
All my blooming selves would
Argue incessantly against
The background chorus
Of happy crickets and bullfrogs,
Grumpy in their sweaty moles.
I mused my home, a man-made
Hole-in-the-country, was
My friend, each tree an old
Lady that invited me in,
The hills a spirit-thing that
Spoke in a leaf-crinkle language
As all the separate entities
Of myself fell asleep inside me
in a salt-bubble of the purest night.
And although August would
Part us, we’d never go
Our separate ways, all the
Sister-selves who covet my
organs and share my bones.

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