Young Writers Society

20. Reading Between the Lines (title thanks to Peng<3)

(I’ll clean your rubber ducky)
The rubber duck leapt into the laundry
bones clanking, lazy, next to my ears,
grappling
at my skull, and soft.

blue waves lie (concave)
(I was always ugly but never mean)
when I dove under the bathwater I saw a sea,
waves of blue
swept up the sand of ghoulish monsters where
I was playing sandbox and there were
bones and a Zorro.

Always take the top if you get in a fight with a bar of soap;
you’d lose space; the sea.

when you took a breath, there was nothing left
but foam and airy bubbles where my eyes were still twinkling, where
masked mirrors echo,
cat bones escaping from soapy clutches.

21.

When it whispers into my ears, it’s like
the humming hymn of beauty, the satisfaction of a pas-de-bas
stepping on the feet of Tchaikovsky.

I love 17 and the end of 19. The imagery is great in both. [:

Experimenting with comparison. Done in the second poetry workshop.

22. daisy ring

Woven with soft, pink fingers
like yarn knit on needles,
sliding between,
brushing off yellowy dust,
the moon is melting like cheese in an oven.
Green stems poke
as only the stick in a fondue would,
and where your shining-with-grease hair
brushes over orange eyes, I can’t help but think
as only a monarch butterfly would.
and when the world spun topsy-turvy
your golden-white crown of daisies flew (and fell)
like the dead feathers of a pigeon.

23. shedding


Bound in serpentine coils made into love-knots,
and standing with pinky fingers crossed
breaking a promise. Her hair falls wildly
in chunks (and her skin too;

it peels off in hexagonal cellophane sheets)

in a consequential sequence
like primary succession

24. naked bone

(I was half then.)

I was only half a grapefruit at breakfast matched
with strong Turkish coffee. I had stolen the salt from the table,
and pepper was all alone.

When the cat nudges with its rigid tongue
(Christ it’s like the entire Rocky Range is
in that tiny feline mouth);

She scrapes away at my hand, peeling back flaking peach and
white and red, eating it away, until there’s
nothing but the
bare naked bone of my wrist.