Young Poets

In the Year of the Barbie Movie

Waking up, soft black liner, bite of toast; tying

the world outside in ribbons. Flowers shoved

in gunshot wounds, climbing the walls with fury. Slut,

says a spiking grin, below the

ceilings see through, above the louboutin soles like

wine moons. Ordering woman on woman on woman, piled up in

wedding cake tiers, our blood

poured over ice and served to the cats with the

cream and the keys to the treasury.

x

We paint our nails pink and can’t say clit on camera,

yet the smug, sharp, slick suit across the

road imagines what’s under the ubiquity.

x

Hand in hand in hand, walking through

tight streets full of laughs and excuses,

pulling satin down till it covers the

tops of our thighs, what does that mouth do,

pretty thing? Funny you should ask,

x

this mouth is the same that opened wide to

scream, the moment my mother split apart to give me the earth;

this is the same mouth that spits out sugared words

on command, some typecast typewriter full of

what you’ve wanted to hear, this is the mouth that

swears she’ll never be a secret and this is the

mouth that hides in backstage closets, too, this is the mouth

that curls around honey-blonde sobs in movie theatres, that oh-so witty, clever mouth

that holds stars and comets between her teeth, and

 tears your nights to shreds. This is the mouth that belongs to

x

the year of the dollface, the sugartits, the good girl;

the one that fears for the year of the text me when you’re home, of the vigils and vengeance,

because, my mouth cries, in the year of the woman,

why are we still icing-sugar ashed and scattered through gravestones?

x

My Love of 10 Months, My Girl of 10 Years

i will give you all my coke can tabs, and all my

most affectionate smiles. you buy me dresses

of rust and pomegranate and tie them with

wired headphones and love songs.

my girl, the softest part of me, three taps on

sleepy shoulders in a bed too small – feathered in the half-

night, i can press myself to you and never

have to run.

x

facing your video camera eyes and stroking your

hair, i meet your friends too early in a cotton slip, drinking

cherry sours. you wait in every crowd, every

song i sing you’ll finish the line; i can see

us blurred on balconies in the 7am rays,

weak tea and biscoff on

toast. no caption needed; art in comfort. you muddle

the boys and the mint leaves,

drinking cocktails, a december grin, dripping secrets till they’re cracked and

open, my girl, a chip off my hip bone.

x

a turquoise lover in a wes anderson t-shirt, we

colour your hair too late and swim

in water that makes us pale. we burn the

bridge of our noses and stargaze smelling

of sweat and cider. two halves of a clementine,

no one is as good for me, nothing about you burns.

my girl, my coffee ice-cream, my knotted hair,

my never-kissed, my always-wanted-too, my

fake freckles, my heavy liner, my muse, my moon, my mouth,

my heart.

I’m From

I’m from camo four wheelers,

From driving through mud and my grandad’s teasing

I’m from tall, arching, protective trees

Making the roadway magically dark

I’m from spanish moss, vines and weeds

I’m from a one-story house on a lane named after a fish,

Blue shutters and a flooded backyard every rain

I’m from catching tadpoles, exploring ditches 

With a singular plank as a bridge

When my parents would turn their heads

x

I’m from days spent outside with neighbors,

My school uniform trashed

I’m from making potions from sand, dirt, grass,

And throwing it at my brother

I’m from tee-ball, basketball, soccer, karate

From a romantic concession stand with someone I hope to find again

I’m from injuries and cruel teachers

Who punished kids for being kids

I’m from trash fires and Chevy trucks

Hunting dogs, fat cats, rabid possums

I’m from thick mac’n’cheese, sizzling soda,

Freezing sweet tea, greasy chicken

x

I’m from a big white library in town,

A playground in the back where I talked with my crush

I’m from Dairy Queen, Burger King, and KFC all on the same street

A park and a reserve, a duck named after my grandmother

I’m from daily milkshakes with Gigi, arguments with my brother

About the drive taken to her house

I’m from deer heads and rifles

Gospel songs and church friends

I’m from Dad’s jokes

And Mom’s advice

From where I barely call home anymore

x

People Before Me

I’m a puzzle of the people before me    

My father’s movie-quote humor, my mother’s chestnut hair

I hope they’re proud when I cross that golden sea

x

My grandfather’s need to be free

My mother’s skin, so fair

I’m a puzzle of the people before me

x

My father’s drive to achieve

His mother’s dramatic flair

I hope they’re proud when I cross that golden sea

x

My brother’s sticky wonder with Star Wars and TV

My unknown great grandfather’s sapphire glare

I’m a puzzle of the people before me

x

My grandmother’s tongue, jagged glass and mean

Her husband’s hatred for things unfair

I hope they’re proud when I cross that golden sea

x

They all have ideas of who I should be

I need more time to prepare

I’m a puzzle of the people before me

I hope they’re proud when I cross that golden sea