Chagall, Lust, T-o-d-a-y

Wine and blood of a great man

(Grand man)

Every wispy creature crunching their wings

(their clean clean wings)

Into a pulp of that of that

(that)

Wine blood syrup heartache agar

of nutrient life Life

(l’chaim)

Every forearm on the flip side of

this universe

(that universe)

Rubbing against one another down a path

(beaten path)

(I beat the path)

I know you

Croon of neck

(his neck)

I know you leaves

(wild leaves)

(swirling leaves)

(fighting leaves)

(dead leaves)

Don’t run faster than the frame

(stay inside the frame)

And burst outward into infinite planes perpendicular to your own

(my own)

(…)

-Chagall museum, France

Lust

Lust,
I’d just like to thank you for the sleep deprivation,
The 4am’s over orange, glowing Second Avenue
When I’m up with the patrolling, last shift of the night
(or maybe first of the day?)
Cab drivers aimlessly rolling over each
Gravelly pothole.
Here—I’m still beating a path, a
Physical crevice, a fold of my brain,
With obsessive, jittery, intangible calculations as
To infer whether his knee against my knee was an
Intentional pressing of warm skin onto warm skin,
How many times he let me hid in his cavernous chest,
When & how I could get back to that crooked spot on your dream boat,
Lust.

You know, God considers you one of the seven deadly sins;
I have the desires of a flagellate, to beat and
Punish myself—repent—with bloody scourge after counting
Freckles on the backs of necks of good boys sitting with their mothers
At high holiday service, eyes detangling some prayer I
cannot decipher.
A man of religion is sexy.

Lust, you grab my throat with angular thumbs and
Wide finger tips, not to suffocate me from air, but to
Stop my body from receiving whatever nerve impulses
Tell a woman to keep her knees crossed and hands
Folded, a white linen dinner napkin starched to a tent.

Lust, you fill up my tongue as a viscous puss,
Bursting and oozing and burning as the bourbon center of
A chocolate bon bon,
You drape yourself over my voice box like a velvet sheaf.
you make me say hot like a cat howling in a cold,
porcelain bathtub
you have me breathing you like a man afraid of triggering an avalanche
or a mother desperately trying to preserve the
slumber of her finally resting babe.

Lust, I hope you burn in some endless vortex of hell,
That Gabriel personally grabs you by the collar of your silk
Blouse and tosses your limp body into a furnace with the remains
of all the pure, sweet,
virgin lovers you tainted with your
cinnamon touch and silky tendrils of long, sweeping hair.
But, I don’t think you’ll suffer
You’ll probably just pierce the frenzied, sharp heat with
wailing demand for more, more, more,
You sick, sadistic fiend.

But lust, perhaps you are not the voluptuous seductress I have
Begun to conjure up,
Could it be you are a simple farm girl like me,
Brushing your tanned forearms over tall fields of prairie grass,
Wistfully gazing at blue dragon flies,
Content to be attached at the waist with their lifelong mate.
Below your cherry stained lip, perhaps you are the
Ultimate protector of monogamy

T – o – d – a – y

Today I was late to school because I tried to weave flowers in my hair

Intricately twisting and knotting into loops and cherub corkscrew swirls

I do not have the compliant kind of hair

None of the flowers would take root as they were nestled

and then placed

and then jammed into my rat tail snake tongued licks

(my mother says I have a forked tongue.

My mother says one day I will say something I will regret.

You can’t take back what your say with a forked tongue-

it’ll simply trickle back through the slice).

Today I walked to school without flowers in my hair.

It was humid. It was a glass bowl over a big thick ole house fly.

It was slow. It was suffocating.

I saw little girl in a princess dress.

I could see her clean white cotton underwear under the pink tulle of her jupe

(pretty word, jupe, springy word, jupe).

I could only think of what all the boys and the men and the mothers and

the firemen would say to me if they could see my clean white underwear.

Whore. Whore. Whore. Whore.

There is nothing clean in this syrup reverberating air.

Today I carried a backpack. It was heavy. I disliked it.

Today I saw a car. It did not run me over [as I had hoped].

Today I went to school.

Today I came home.

It isn’t today because today was the tomorrow yesterday and last Tuesday

promised Friday to take back but return Thursday under the condition that

Wednesday find Saturday and kill the blue jay in the v of the oak tree with a

slingshot.

(proverbs I will never learn. I do not care)

(what is to be done if the rubber band is old and brittle?)

(see appendix A side two)

Today I learned something but it didn’t really matter after all.

Today I saw my friends and ate a pasta noodle.

It was made of wheat, they say. I do not know.

I ate I ate I 8 I ay-T I eight I A-t I tried to stop eating because it makes my

breasts lumpy and my ass a rhombus or a diamond or a puffer fish.

Today I watched television with my very sick mother.

Not so much sick mother.

Sliced-open-sewed-up mother

(it is her life. It is inevitable).

Today I made plans which scared me.

Today I wished I knew how to sit still;

I used to know how to sit still.

Today I called my therapist- she was busy.

Today I called my lover boy- he did not want me.

Today I called my friend- she did not care for my banter.

Today I called my father. He told me how to solve for X

I already knew how.


Rebecca Aydin, Age 16, Grade 11, Hewitt School, Gold Key

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