Tag: Poetry

Poem: Desire (that girl I once knew)

Desire (that girl I once knew)
(by Veronica McDonald)

Desire’s changed.
She used to be sort of sexy
like sweet-smelling trash
with heroin-chic cheekbones
and pouty cigarette lips.
A loud laugh often played on those lips
muddled like it was underwater
under the wave of noise that came in
an unending hum.
Her purple, anorexic fingers
poured Kamikazes and tequila shots
down my throat in bursts of fire
that woke that Thing living inside of me
like she’d smacked it with a hard slap
of glitter and nail polish.
And that Thing would move
into my hands, making them
pull on the man smiling at me
grabbing his hair, his belt loops
pulling on his hips.
And my ears would fill with music—
not sweet, but hard, tribal
banging in time with the pounding
in my chest.
My nose would fill with the stench
of scotch, smoke, sweat, him
my eyes catching muted lights
glimmering against hot skin.
Seeing her now
the Thing stirs, anticipating her familiar smack
but she’s different, so changed I didn’t
recognize her at first.
Her smile’s big and warm wriggling with
nicotine gum.
The long glittering nails are missing from
hands that remind me of Grandma’s—
soft, tissuey, reaching for everything
as if it were fragile and precious.
She is light— light as air, light as
a breeze, as a violin song playing
for the sky.
Arms outstretched she reaches for Him
eyes only on Him
and it’s all for Him
only Him.
Without looking, she strokes
the Thing inside of me with the tip
of her finger and suddenly
I want Him, too
because everything around Him
is crisp and clear and fresh as a spring
Because He’s pure
Because He’s truth
Because He’s home.

Photo credit: “Woman Holding a Glass” by Paul Gavarni (Public Domain)

Poem: Nerd

Nerd (by Veronica McDonald)

Timmy wore the word “NERD” on him
thick and stinking like bilge water
like being smart and following the rules
(the ones teachers policed like lawmen)
was a bad thing, a bad smell, like Timmy’s warm
Waldorf salad breath.
He wanted a friend but couldn’t find one
in the forest of baby-joy as he picked through the trees
with an ax that had a steel handle marked by hard FACT
‘cuz the kids scatter at his noise like willow-o-the-wisps
blinking and disappearing in the corners
of his squinting eyes.
He has black lettuce stuck between his front teeth
when he tells a girl in his class about the scientific
impossibility of Santa Claus, and of his bringing toys to every
child in the world and that even if reindeer could fly
the physics of it all was just ludicrous. Think of the speed
in which he would have to travel, and even with the time-zone changes
his body would not physically be able to withstand the speed.
And the girl looks at him and nods and feels a revolted pity
as he fidgets with nervous fingers through the magic dust
on his desk, peering into his electron microscope.
She tells him there’s food in his teeth and Timmy turns red
dark red, redder than the girl thought possible
redder than Santa’s hat, and she comes to the horrifying
realization that it was all said to impress her.
Mrs. Sanders creeps up behind them and grabs Timmy’s shoulder
(like she owns his intelligence and all that comes with it)
and tells him to go back to his microscope
while she chuckles in her mind at the thought
that one day Timmy will be CEO of the world
and the rest of the kids who teased and ignored him
and called him “lettuce-teeth-Tim”
will regret that they did not also conduct a scientific investigation
into the impossibility of Santa Claus
and that she, Mrs. Sanders, alone could revel in the inevitability
of Timmy’s future success and her small but vital role in it all.
Timmy obeys because he must, and goes back to his microscope
but in the corner of his eye he watches
as the girl drifts away like mist
and floats out of the classroom window —
open just a crack for the possibility of a breeze —
away into the sky behind a cloud
to meet the hidden Sun.

Photo credit: “Child Leaning on His Elbow” by Paul Helleu (Public Domain)

Poem: i am

i am (by Veronica McDonald)

i am meat
wrapped in baby doll plastic
laid down on the slab.
i name me “Jane”
paint bright red lipstick on my lips.
Don’t stop there.
Why be so predictable?
i draw the lipstick down
the curve of my chin
onto my chest
draw a large bleeding heart
between breasts that are too small
so i label them “MUSCLE.”
The plastic almost feels like skin
it bounces back under my fingers —
too perfect — so i scratch it
then cover the marks
in “Soft Honey” foundation.
i get bored
so i name me “Fred.”
i spell it “FREED” in bold black letters
stitched into my abdomen
with a broken needle.
i cut off my long brown hair and glue it
under my nose, like a mustache.
i leave the lipstick.
It makes Fred unique
a creature rarely seen.
i pierce his body
with transgressions;
a few earrings first
then a tongue cheek nipple throat-ring.
The beauty and uniqueness are almost
complete.
He looks feminine —
whatever that means —
so i name him “Jane.”
i give her red contacts
to match the lips under her mustache
bleach what’s left of her hair
until the smell burns
and the hair has lost all
naturalness —
whatever that means.
This is my body
it was made in my image
it reflects
nothing
deeper than existence
it is my birthright
my machine.
The meat inside begins to rot
the juice leaks from somewhere
onto the slab.
i polish the skin
spray it with $500 perfume
maybe it’s Chanel
maybe it’s made from the sweat
of starving children—
i don’t care.
Eat drink for tomorrow we die.
i’m so beautiful i could cry.
so i do.
brown-red tears pour down my cheeks
and i can hardly smell it
anymore

Photo credit: “Smarra” by Tony Johannot (Public Domain)

Poem: stay awake

stay awake (by Veronica McDonald)

a new day
a new hour
Where am I
stay awake
the Lord says to stay awake
my mind wanders, dreaming
floats over where I don’t live
anymore
stay awake
TV books and nooks
full of cobwebs
where I once sat to dream
where spiders made their nests
on and over me
“she sits and dreams
sits and dreams
her insides brew with want and envy
wants to touch the world
but she can’t feel it”
Where is it
Does everyone live in it but me
everyone lives in it but me
I’ll sit and dream with no hope
worlds both inside and outside of me
I can’t get at them either way
not if I tear my skin or reach out my arms
asking the world to rescue me
no one hears, they’re not there
the spiders say I’m ok
and carry me back to the corner
they say
“go to back to sleep, keep dreaming
keep dreaming, so we can make our nests”
but the Lord says stay awake
stay awake stay awake

 

Photo credit: “Thick Spider’s Web” by Lancelot Speed (Public Domain).