Crossed
Eyes
A
glossy photograph with eyes
scraped
clean with black ballpoint.
Anger
and pressure,
strokes
of lines—
straight
and circular—
penetrate
white paper,
bringing
it to the fore,
dehumanizing
its former owner of its
identity
warmth
power
control
over
the smiling figure pictured next to it,
you.
The Drop Off
Maidenhood aside,
your sex trapped me.
My fresh curls could not
compete with you aged mounds
of flesh I did not desire.
The fruity bubble gum should
have told me all:
the sickly melon perfumed
my car, ate at my stomach,
eroding my alliance,
down to a sugary decay of
falsehood and cunning.
Thinking nothing of sticky fly traps,
I shared my soda and
youthful dimples.
Instead of cookies, you offered love
and, of course, your sex
as the sugar started to saturate,
entrapping me.
The friend you left behind --
not the one that offered you a ride,
the one you had in me--
dashed off her fears and turned the key.
Sweetly, I spurned your desires,
but with all the sugar everything
turned sour.
I dropped off your unfulfilled
desires at your doorstop.
You will come to me again,
but I will not be there.
IÕve thrown away all of my candy.
The
Reflex
The
lead guitaristÕs butterfly collar
framed
the half opened polyester shirt
exposing
the sable chest hair that
matched
his fuzzy head.
Shiny
silver dress slit high
up
the lead singerÕs
thigh
as she begins
her
scorching rendition
of
Gloria Gaynor.
I will survive
Oh, as long as I know É
It reminds of my motherÕs obsession with
All oldies – all
of the time
Songs
that tormented my youth
with
a quick rotation of the radio dial.
Love, love me doÉ
The
lyrics of one Beatles song or another—
nothing but a good oldie would do for my mother.
As
I sat watching the misfit 70Õs band
leave
the stage at the dive bar of my college existence
where
I often drank after creative writing workshops—
sometimes
more than others, sometimes harder than others—
the
thoughts of the funky polyester pants dissipate
and
memories of my motherÕs radio fade
giving
way to another time when I was young,
and
Duran DuranÕs ÒThe ReflexÓ
made
everything seem so much easier.
©
Jennifer L. Smith
Bio: Jennifer L. Smith lives in Eagle River,
Alaska. Her work has recently appeared in Cirque, Yellow Chair Review,
and Peeking Cat Poetry. See more of her work at jlsmithwrites.com.