“Those Sweltering Evenings On The Balcony Of Beirut”; “Over Easy”; “The Art Of Procrastination”; “Things With Wings”; “Last Day Of Summer”

Those Sweltering Evenings on the Balcony of Beirut

I am swaying
on a porch swing,
sweltering and squeaking.
Above me is broken sky, the color of
grapefruit.
My grandmother slides the steamy glass door
open, humming,
offering me tea.
I refuse.
I long for ice.

For she is the sun;
And a person can only take so much heat,
I thought.

I now sit empty
in my bedroom
November,
covers up,
but can’t seem to recapture
the warmth she sang.

Over Easy

two eggs on a navy plate.
yolk too slippery
too rubbery
too squeakyrainbootclean
to eat.
Touch their center
And they bleed.

Yawn.

Strands of rebellious hair swim
in their yellow,
my head sinking
“eat your eggs!”
my head shaking
“wake up!”
my eyes closing.
“you’re gonna be late!”
my eyes opening.

Two streaming yellow eyes staring back at me.
They watch me blink
and I can almost swear
they are going to
Eat me alive.

The Art of Procrastination

A toffee silhouette
Stapled to the burgundy rug.

stooped spell stretches to restriction—
caffeine addiction? Eyes beginning to buzz
jazz.

Boil the water
stir the coffee
the key is to get it
just right
too hot too hot wait for it
to cool

too cool
Boil the water stir the coffee the key is

Slurp
slow
sucking
hours out the watch
Watching the watch

Eyes beginning to buzz
Jazz.

Things With Wings

Disquiet the lull
which swoons
in your bed sheets
wistful of bliss unvarnished
Carry the credo and gusto
which propel
the splintering itch.
that being
begins at your neck
stretching through to your shoulders
sprouting
in tufts
of white
plumage
out from
inside of you.
awry and polaroid at first
but the void rehearsed
dispels and inhales
with such simplicity
that you begin to count
shrinking rooftops
and blinking taxicabs
and you, on wings
are free
to float,

Last Day of Summer

If it were tomorrow she might
cry, she thought
to herself.
lilies bursting
clovers peaking through cracks
she lay on her back
and counted the hours.
and seconds
and flowers
and reckoned
that maybe a year would pass by
quicker than last
and alas!
it grew dark
hunching over her shoulders
she exits the park.

May Makki, Age 16, Grade 11, The Chapin School, Gold Key

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