It never ceases to be an amazement to me that I originally wrote this poem at the age of 18 and published it years and years later in an academic press.
It reminds me (and sometimes I need this) that all things are possible, given focus. There is, yes, such a thing as being overly creative, all typical protestations of writer's block aside.
Originally published in Yemassee, the University of South Carolina's literary magazine:
Vinegar & Water
Half asleep, dreaming my words
I am curling Grandma's hair a she leans across me
whispering crepey powder and faded love letters, and talking
about pretty girls who loved only books
But that was all right,
as I wound the pin curls sprayed with vinegar and water
and smiled 14-year-old righteousness at the reflection in the mirror
as our eyes met countenance repeated
letting my words grow tight and round.
Last night, dreaming, I realized she was right: I do lie.
remembering her death face after writing my book about rescues
which no one wants but approach wistfully, like piquant masks
forming circles of eyes and mouths and caricaturing us all.
I find a list is imminent - an inventory of pins and needles -
crucifixes all, and of my births
wrapped individually so she can't touch their realities
I wonder if she was right:
Meaningless context like band-aid marriages and dreaming in color
to see the pictures,
Not all that pretty.
There are gray strands in her hair in the mirror
in the tone of her eyes - refracted visions -
If I can conquer this window, I can pin anything.
Nice work!
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