Rage

Rage
Based on the painting titled Rage by Brenda Jones

You took my hands with you.
I can’t change anything.
You took my feet too.
I can’t run from it.
I still remember the snarl of your lip,
the look of disgust after.
Like maybe you regretted it. Or not.
Maybe you were disgusted by me.
The bloody mangled remains of my youthful body,
laying prostrate on the graying white sheet.
There might have been regret in your eyes.
Sorrow. For the pain you inflicted
Sorrow. In the deep creases of your eyes.
But that came later. Probably.

Monster. Did you feel bad?
I still see you in the crowds,
in the faces of angry strangers shoving past.
I’m older now, and you’re gone,
but you’re still in my head.
Are you sorry?
As you burn in hell, are you sorry?

Our Circles End

I want to loathe you.
Tell you to stay away.
Until I am near you,
then I pray you’ll stay.
Do you see me?
As more than a friend?
Or am I just
your girl pretend?
To satiate your need
Until the time
you find the next girl
to glut your mind.
But here I am
waiting for you again
Is this a circle?
Can it be our end?

Eminence (Revise)

Standing on the edge of this cliff. Timid.
Tremulous waters below, lapping at the stone.

My quaking feet knock pebbles in the foaming
fingers that reach up, trying to grasp my ankles.

He is down there. He’s asking me to jump,
to collapse into his unyielding, rock steady grip.

I stagger back from the precipice, the boundary, the brink.
Unsure of his dependability, his stability.

If I jump, I may stumble. I may crash. I may die.
Or I may just miss his arms completely.

But if I don’t, I’ll never find him, never join him.
And so with gravel crunching beneath me,

I soar.

It like learning to grow a turtleneck

I’m sitting in my living room
With my leg curled up underneath
me on the big comfy chair.

My friend Caitlin is laughing her
Laugh, bubbling and flowing out all
Over the carpet.

Our Friends keep saying funny things.

My boyfriend Ben is sitting on the floor,
Trying earnestly to explain probability
While I make funny faces at him.

How you doin’?

It’s pretty much impossible
To concentrate on studying
Autobiographies about old dead guys when
Ross, Rachel, Monica, Chandler, Phoebe and Joey
Keep making me laugh.

-Sarah Baughman

Ice Sestina

It’s cold.
But I can’t wear my gloves while I tie my skates
My knee’s bang together as I stand up. Weak
Ankles, straining to balance on the blades.
I can feel the heaters above me, a breeze
That pushes me forward; through the door, onto the ice.

I forget this feeling of freedom on the ice
After I go home, legs burning, toes cold.
I close my eyes and push forward on my skates
Ignoring reality, the pressure that makes me weak
Focus on the sound, ice on blade
Faster yet, my worries fly away in the breeze.

Do they feel this breeze?
As they, stick in hand, slice across the ice
Do they feel the cold?
Do they feel freedom on skates
Too? Or is that weak?
Stick, puck, net, blade.

What about her? On the toe of the blade?
Spinning so fast, the crown can feel the breeze.
Jumps, twirls, a spray of ice.
Her only expression: one of cold
Concentration. Her legs are a continuation of her skates
A part of her. Without them, she’s weak.
Alone here, I’m not weak.
A strange place to meet him, on blades
And still alone. Yet I feel him in the breeze
As I circle the ice.
A strange way to connect, but he meets me in the cold,
Gliding with me, my God finds me on skates.

I can forget life when I’m on skates.
When everything’s gone, he strengthens the weak.
He steadies me, when I’m balanced on one blade.
When I wobble and sway in the breeze.
He melts away my protective ice,
Warms my hands in his, chases away the cold.

A Reason- Billy Collins Poem

It keeps hounding me in my mind.
That voice that sounds eerily like my mother
With a bit more judgment thrown in
For good measure.

It thrives on guilt,
Poking like a sliver stuck in your sock
At that soft part of me
That I already have doubts about.
It gets to me.

Cleaning
Baking
Drinking
All at once.
I’m doing all I can to ignore her.

Ooops, I mean it.

There’s a reason I don’t keep a gun in the house.

Fireworks

1. He looks down at his hands, feet, himself
Inadequate in his own eyes. But she
Is perfect to him. Pure, like a nun
But without the lifetime commitment.
Fireworks burst behind him. She smiles.
He watches her, wishing, hoping, wanting
But holding back. Waiting. Sparklers burst
Around them, framing her in a heavenly glow.

2. She looks down at her hands, entwined
With his. Resting on the cold metal of
Her folding chair. The air in the gymnasium
Is heavy, warm, stifling from the crowd.
Music begins and she glances behind
Searching for him, his from is so familiar
Almost identical to the man next to her.
Twenty years ago, in front of the fireworks.