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return home
to Kristy's writing
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More Poetry
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Mother’s Party
I wake up
put on my school uniform
and yell for my brothers.
While they dress, I go to the kitchen
for a bowl of cereal.
Stunned at the sight of the refrigerator
tipped over on its side,
contents spilled across the linoleum floor
covered with ants.
I quickly place two pieces
of outdated bread into the toaster.
No towels, no mop, no broom,
but find some sheets stuffed
in the back of the bathroom closet.
Absorb the broken eggs, beer,
mayonnaise, milk, spaghetti sauce,
and syrup of unknown source
with the sheets.
My only relief was the lack of food
in the fridge
after my mother’s party.
The toast pops up,
and I fish through the rubble for butter.
Run to give my brothers the toast,
keeping them out of the kitchen.
Tell them I am staying home.
They ask no questions and set off for the bus stop.
I return to the fridge,
wondering if I am strong enough
to lift it upright.
I throw the soaked sheets
into the tub,
the floor still saturated with marbleized liquid.
Step on a jar fragment
cutting my bare foot.
Blood drips onto the floor combining with the refuse.
I watch as ants begin to drink
and drown in my blood, wishing
a fairy godmother could turn
them into something useful.
Find empty bottles and cigarettes
hiding in corners.
Fill a garbage bag with the late night clutter,
and kill the ants because godmothers aren’t real.
Then I sit on the sticky floor,
and silently drown in her mess.
1999
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Post-colonialism
Driving on route 140
on a cloudless night
after my World Lit. Seminar,
I pull over to the side of the road.
Nothing is wrong with my Toyota,
only with me.
I jump out— inspired,
run around my car
and straight ahead
not following the highway
but into the woods.
Force my way through the pathless
undergrowth
allowing darkness to envelop
all I know.
Branches and bushes
catch my clothing,
pull my hair,
hold me back.
But I pursue,
possessed of the primitive
ideal.
Fling aside my sneakers and socks,
jeans and shirt.
Whip off my bra
and strip the elastic from my hair.
Leave them all behind.
Needles scrape
and cut my skin
but invigorate my spirit.
Continue deeper,
until I can barely see.
Then I stop
lay down
and stare at the sky,
my only light
from the immense moon
and fathomless stars.
I absorb life—
reroot myself;
believe I am empathetic
with those that came before.
But the longer I lay there
the more I think of insects
crawling through my hair.
I search for security—
the forest ignores me.
Unseen eyes penetrate
my apprehension
and I grapple to hide
my nakedness
from the mosquitoes.
Underneath the silence
lay another city
laced with chirps, growls,
and natural minds.
I am the intruder,
and my feet throb
from stepping out of my shoes
and into a misinterpretation
of post-colonialism.
I run as fast
as blindness allows,
but I can not find my way back.
My clothes are stolen
by the entwined hands
grabbing at me.
I scream
but no one hears or listens.
Wander around alone
in a world unlike my own.
My mind searches
for signs of light.
Holding onto hope,
I finally conquer the woods.
Stumble upon an unfamiliar road,
my car nowhere in sight.
My feet pad gratefully
on the flat pavement.
And I walk forward
despite feeling numb; defeated.
Hold my head high
while I weep.
A cop pulls over
and I embrace him,
muttering a story apparently
incomprehensible
because he arrests me
for indecent
exposure.
Then I understand.
1999
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