Blood sweat and tears
make medicine
that tastes like maraschino
and dyes my lips deep red.
I haven't been fed good food
in a long time
and neither has my goldfish
who I named Tellulah.
It's the name I would give
to my daughter should I live
in the South.
If I named her that here
the many children
would crawl over her
like ants
and keep her off
the monkey bars.
They would scoff at her
because this is their job
for now.
To chip the paint
from metal poles
pull up weeds
from in between wood chips
eat glue
nose pick
and with a million tiny pricks
draw a drop of blood.
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Who I Be.
- Laura G
- The Pacific Northwest, United States
- Friend, Daughter, Singer. Reader and Writer; better at the former and working on the latter. I am obsessed with ghost stories, sea chanties and appalachian folk songs.
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1 comment:
goddam this is great. let me emphasize my point. GODDAM. this is WONDERFUL.
i remember, as i was really starting to experiment with poetry in high school, one of my teachers criticized my work. the main comment that he made, and that has (for better or worse) influenced my work, was about the necessity of storyline in poetry. it took me a long time to understand that "story" in poetry doesn't have to look like a conventional story.
my whole point is that this poem tells a somehow lovely story about the grotesque of relationships.
and the preface-like first two stanzas create an idea. (you know stanza is room in italian? it is like each stanza is a new room. requiring a solid entrance and exit.)
blah blah blah. basically. i like this a lot. WRITE ON.
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