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Literature Text
I.
I had dreams of finding myself
standing in a candy store
with one cent to spend, only one and maybe ten
thousand thousand types of confection -- this was back
when a penny would buy you
a handful of a sweet.
I read stories of the past
where that really happened --
to near-real girls, struggling to choose
which pushcart vendor would get
their allowance pennies: judging the earnest
sing-song-singing, their hands slapping
their biceps against November's rime --
to the ravished eyes
of a near-real boy: chapped fingers,
worn from gentling the colt
in the barnyard, reaching
all at once for the dishes of jams
and jellies, of fried apples-'n'-onions, helping
themselves to a slice of every pie.
II.
There is something about the manner of this father
I see on television, a cook
treating his young daughters
to pomegranate seeds and their juice,
that captivates and directs me to write
a poem about this whole business.
It complicates the process
that I am not permitted to choose
the penny candy, to taste the pies,
to drink the sanguine fluid. The flesh
is willing but the spirit is weak.
Thirsty and hungry, trapped in a corner
store by the cracker-pickle-pork barrels,
I wait and wait and wait and never sip
or bite or chew a drop or crumb.
I had dreams of finding myself
standing in a candy store
with one cent to spend, only one and maybe ten
thousand thousand types of confection -- this was back
when a penny would buy you
a handful of a sweet.
I read stories of the past
where that really happened --
to near-real girls, struggling to choose
which pushcart vendor would get
their allowance pennies: judging the earnest
sing-song-singing, their hands slapping
their biceps against November's rime --
to the ravished eyes
of a near-real boy: chapped fingers,
worn from gentling the colt
in the barnyard, reaching
all at once for the dishes of jams
and jellies, of fried apples-'n'-onions, helping
themselves to a slice of every pie.
II.
There is something about the manner of this father
I see on television, a cook
treating his young daughters
to pomegranate seeds and their juice,
that captivates and directs me to write
a poem about this whole business.
It complicates the process
that I am not permitted to choose
the penny candy, to taste the pies,
to drink the sanguine fluid. The flesh
is willing but the spirit is weak.
Thirsty and hungry, trapped in a corner
store by the cracker-pickle-pork barrels,
I wait and wait and wait and never sip
or bite or chew a drop or crumb.
Literature
daughters
my 5 year old daughter only wants to run
through the park, loping beside our wolf-puppy,
both lean & fierce, joyful
as she tosses her hair back
& suddenly I see my body
in hers, tireless & certain,
despite my pounding heart
& damaged limbs, I run&run&
then she gives for a moment,
tumbled full-length in the grass,
feeding the puppy from her cupped hands,
& demanding, scratch my back too!
then down her sides & over the ripples
of her ribcage, her leaping heart
& tummy, still baby-soft,
until the shadows reach us & I
must give her back, inch by inch,
a long, twirling hug
my mother will echo with sad arms,
murmuring, you look really good,
Literature
wednesday's child
it is the third of october
and i am building a castle for us
out of feathers, bird bones,
ocean waves and library book pages.
anything to keep our feet from
touching the ground.
you are sin, he whispers
and his fingers trail cold fire
down my side, scorching flesh
and freezing bone;
brittle pieces of me shatter
as they hit the stained linoleum floor.
don't wake me from this nightmare.
i whisper a nursery rhyme
as i walk down our
autumn path.
kamikaze leaves fall, trailing
fire as they throw themselves from
the branches, down, down,
to cold pavement below.
your words echo in my mind
a constant reminder
that i am sin
but you,
you were
ne
Literature
My Mother's Horse
The night my mother died, the horse in the barn started singing.
Its neck bulged, veins sticking out like ropes around a hanged man's throat. The old blind eyes stared at nothing, dumbly terrified of the same.
"Shut up, you old dumb bitch," I snapped at it. It had been my mother's horse. Better than a lawnmower, cheaper than a car, she used to say. But for the last few years, it had been too sick to eat and too weak to ride or pull a cart. It just stood in its stall, swaying on its broomstick legs and heaving its eyelids up and down over its smoggy eyes. We'd been an odd trio—my mom, her horse, and me. She refused to kill it, and it h
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For the AllPoetryIsGolden 100 Themes Challenge.
Questions:
1) Does the title work for you? Do you have any suggestions for a better title?
2) Do the "story" stanzas work all right -- do they make sense as they are or need further explanation?
3) Is it clear in the end that "I" am struggling with an eating disorder?
Questions:
1) Does the title work for you? Do you have any suggestions for a better title?
2) Do the "story" stanzas work all right -- do they make sense as they are or need further explanation?
3) Is it clear in the end that "I" am struggling with an eating disorder?
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Comments2
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Thanks for taking the time and effort to provide such thorough feedback -- I am overwhelmed with gratitude! Quite a lot of what you've said resonates quite well with me. I am letting it stew and will go back over it when I'm ready to revise.