Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Thisbe and Olivia on Orchard Street [1]

This is the start of a very long poem.

I. Thisbe in Mrs. Faber’s First Grade Class

The felt bleeds, I know I can see it. Inky fingerprints. It must hurt the markers! For me to color, they give what Crayola gave them.

But the factory made each marker for a purpose. So one must feel good when I use it, the friction drawing out juice. And it must like my picture—

the wetting and digging and pulling of paper fibers, ink mixing with ink to make the red-orange of Kelly Ridd’s hair.

While sitting in my desk, does a marker ache for use? I should use them all the time! But they expire! And to expire is to die—so they must be in pain. So it is one or the other.

I wish I could just ask them.

I bet I could color my hair the color of Kelly Ridd’s hair.

My desk smells like wet saltines. I could to better at keeping it clean.

I. Olive on the Way Home from the Coffee Shop

I got robbed!

The kind where the asshole confused me behind the till. Twenty for a dollar, three tens for a twenty and a five and five dollars, five for five and ten dollars, no could I have three tens if I give you ten and five dollars. Then it’s a bouquet of paper that smells like salt and later my drawer is twenty short.

The shop is slowly folding. Now I am twenty short. I was already short.

This morning I got two shots in two arms. That was dumb. Idiotic symmetry. Two sets of clumpy muscles. And I lost the quarter inch I grew last summer.

I’ll still tell people I’m five five.

I don’t mean to sound defeated. But now my driver’s license is mostly a lie and I just lost twenty dollars.

Kelin Loe

1 comment:

  1. Kelin, its great to read your poetry again! I love the rhythm of your voice in this poem. It manages to have a childlike sensibility, with a precocious spirit.

    Email me if you have any questions about Amherst (I grew up there).