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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 4025 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Wood. Metal. Glass. Maryann Hazen Stearns This is not another poem about when I was a child. Not about sitting on the curb in front of the house on Spruce Street. Not about scraping a Popsicle stick on the macadam until it was sharp. The stick that gave me nightmares for a week because it turned into the fingers of that man who touched me. Because he didn't and this isn't. Nor is this a poem about my cousin who has the same name as me. Or the heavy metal braces she wore on her legs or the way she clomped around like Frankenstein's monster. It's not about the way she would deliberately step on my fingers or toes under the front porch until I screamed for her to stop oh please stop I won't tell I promise. Because she didn't and neither did I. And this certainly isn't a poem about the tiny white mice we had for pets in a glass tank. It's not about the morning I found my brother laughing as he told me to check it out this is so cool or about the way there was only one mouse who darted around the cage while the pink-eyed head of the other lay in damp pine shavings or about the pain I felt for it or about the way I cried or how my tears only made my brother laugh harder. No. It isn't. This is not a poem about childhood or memories or pain because I'm a grown woman now and these things are meaningless to me. Yes. They are. ~*~ |
