Nonsense poetry for an imaginary girl
Five Dates
Date One:
“Sorry, Mr Sten, but she’s far too young,”
I’m sixteen years old, but tall for my age
Awkward in my skin, fiddling with my hair
As he ushers me in the kitchen door.
“Eva? Too young?” my father is saying
(because he needs access to this man’s land)
“She’s just shy,” he says, and he isn’t wrong.
I’ve never been out on my own before.
Date Two:
“Sorry, Mr Sten, but she’s far too old,”
I’m sixteen years old, still, and he’s twenty.
But he’s Texan and they do things different
Amongst the Fenrir there. More traditional.
“Eva? Too old?” my father is saying
(because he needs this warrior’s war band).
“She’s just tall,” he says and he isn’t wrong.
Five foot ten in my feet. Which makes it worse.
Date Three:
“Sorry, Mr Sten, but she’s far too quiet,”
I still don’t know what I was meant to say
Except ‘tell me more about your glory?’
Which wasn’t very glorious at all.
“Eva? Too quiet?” my father is saying
(because he owes this man and can’t repay)
And he glares at me this time, with cold blue eyes.
He is beginning to lose his patience.
Date Four:
“Sorry, Mr Sten, but I don’t like bruises.”
I’ve got a black eye for my last failure.
My father never wanted a daughter.
And he wants to trade this one away now.
“We are a traditional family,”
My father is explaining to this man.
“I do not tolerate bad behaviour,”
For the first time, a rogue thought. Fuck you, dad.
Date Five:
“Your daughter is a fucking werewolf, Sten,”
The latest macho American barks.
“What bullshit is this?” I squirm, snarl and snap.
No flaxen haired beauty any more, eh?
Instead I am blood drenched - rain storm fury
And the spirits are all singing for me.
We are a traditional family.
But I’m starting a new tradition.
Date One:
“Sorry, Mr Sten, but she’s far too young,”
I’m sixteen years old, but tall for my age
Awkward in my skin, fiddling with my hair
As he ushers me in the kitchen door.
“Eva? Too young?” my father is saying
(because he needs access to this man’s land)
“She’s just shy,” he says, and he isn’t wrong.
I’ve never been out on my own before.
Date Two:
“Sorry, Mr Sten, but she’s far too old,”
I’m sixteen years old, still, and he’s twenty.
But he’s Texan and they do things different
Amongst the Fenrir there. More traditional.
“Eva? Too old?” my father is saying
(because he needs this warrior’s war band).
“She’s just tall,” he says and he isn’t wrong.
Five foot ten in my feet. Which makes it worse.
Date Three:
“Sorry, Mr Sten, but she’s far too quiet,”
I still don’t know what I was meant to say
Except ‘tell me more about your glory?’
Which wasn’t very glorious at all.
“Eva? Too quiet?” my father is saying
(because he owes this man and can’t repay)
And he glares at me this time, with cold blue eyes.
He is beginning to lose his patience.
Date Four:
“Sorry, Mr Sten, but I don’t like bruises.”
I’ve got a black eye for my last failure.
My father never wanted a daughter.
And he wants to trade this one away now.
“We are a traditional family,”
My father is explaining to this man.
“I do not tolerate bad behaviour,”
For the first time, a rogue thought. Fuck you, dad.
Date Five:
“Your daughter is a fucking werewolf, Sten,”
The latest macho American barks.
“What bullshit is this?” I squirm, snarl and snap.
No flaxen haired beauty any more, eh?
Instead I am blood drenched - rain storm fury
And the spirits are all singing for me.
We are a traditional family.
But I’m starting a new tradition.