seeing a little girl
on the train with long,
curly, flowing locks,
I’m reminded of how
my mother struggled
to comb my hair
when I was young – and
how very much it hurt –
so she cut it short
like a boy’s. I
always wanted
long hair
like this girl’s.
she dances unself-consciously,
twirling body and hair
with equal abandon.
I smile and try not
to hate her, stuff
my jealousy back
down inside my heart,
and get off the train.
not out of spite; it was
just my stop.
you left remnants of your presence
today – your toothbrush; tiny hairs
in the shower, coiled like secrets.
seeing them makes me feel
like I’m packed full of curled
fiddlehead ferns that are waiting
to open into full growth.
I censor my own words, my poems,
my very thoughts, for fear
they might prove unwelcome
to you. everything is pretty
and sugary sweet on the surface,
but inside I feel myself slowly
dying to break free.
listening to poets shaping the air
with their words, everything
starts to feel like a poem;
the tall trees listening like spirits,
their foliage, huge green leaves,
waves like elephant ears
or hands silently clapping,
the answer to the famous zen riddle;
the helicopters that zoom
overhead like oversized bees,
passing so often that everyone
cranes their necks to see them
and poets have to pause
to let their loud intrusions
pass; the tiny mysterious
ceramic figurines peeping out
from a niche in the wall
that looks like it should have
once held a fireplace;
a squirrel that runs across
the telephone wires and then
hangs out for a while, watching
these strange humans engaged
in their weird rituals.
everyone thinks
that the princess
is a spoiled brat.
she’s such a wuss.
but she wasn’t lying
when she said
she could still feel the pea
under all those eider-down
mattresses. no matter
how hard she tried
to muffle the source
of her discomfort,
she couldn’t shut it
out.
imagine trying
to be intimate with a person
who has to have certain things
her way in order
to fully enjoy herself.
you left a piece of yourself
at my house the night
before last. I’m wearing it
as I travel across
the city to see you.
I like the feeling of it
around my wrist;
surprisingly heavy,
a little chain to remind me
that I’m blissfully
yours. it bears a
Caduceus
which makes me think
of how we grow closer
together, entwined,
and stronger
because of it.
if my subway car crashed
right now, emergency medical
personnel would be very
confused. I wonder if
they would think
I was you, or would it be
obvious that this does not
belong to me.
except for how
it’s a part of you
so it does, just as
you belong
to me and I
belong to you.
for someone who claims
to never make
eye contact, you sure seem
to meet my gaze
a lot. that said, I’m
having trouble figuring out
what color
your eyes actually are.
I had thought they
were dark blue. but
now I think
they might be brown.
maybe hazel? there
never seems to be
enough light
to tell. can I
shine a flashlight
in there? perhaps a
miner’s headlamp
would do the trick.
when I type “hate” into the tags
on my poetry site, the next tag
that wants to auto fill
is the code name
I use for you.
that’s not
indicative
of an unhealthy
obsession
or anything.
you don’t even care
enough to read all
the angry poems
I write about you.
why am I bothering?
he’s right, damn it.
your presence
shouldn’t be able
to ruin my night,
or even be noticed
as much as it
always is. you’re
a constant
thorn
in my side
and I wish
I could pull it out.
no, but
seriously
you have some nerve
continuing to exist
in my presence.
this whole thing
would be greatly improved
by your absence.
if I turn my head
and don’t look,
will you oblige me
by ceasing to exist?
swimming in the great saltwater
aquarium known as the ocean,
I see so many wild sights:
delicate periwinkle fish;
velvety black fish with electric blue
borders on their fins;
turquoise and green fish;
smallish fish with tiny
bright blue spots
on a field of darkest
midnight blue, a starry night,
electrified; green and pink
fish who look like they got
their color scheme from a
Polo Ralph Lauren catalog;
muddy brown fish with lighter
scales like pebbles and
dusty orange bellies; small
black fish with bright yellow tails
who dart out and attack
much bigger fish when the latter
invade their territory; tiny
fish with mud-brown heads
and ghostly white, almost translucent
bodies, who hide themselves
in holes in the coral so that
only their heads show.
my brother bought
an extremely large
inflatable white swan
for the pool. I helped
him to blow it up –
it’s full of our
mingled breath – but
I don’t always like
the looks of it.
it floats around
and stares at me accusingly
with its big eyes
when I’m smoking in the
middle of the night.
even when there are no
water currents, it
seems to move
of its own accord.
creepy white swan,
I’ll be glad when I
no longer have to
look at your stupid face.
I secretly hope
you get punctured by
a falling branch.
R. Brookes McKenzie 