Poems from Workshop: First drafts
Ghazal of the Nutcracker Prince
He swallows the smell of Christmas pine and it dizzies him-
Much more medical than the scent of candies and dance.
His legs are stiff and uncomfortable and his arms are solid.
He longs for fluid motion, for leaps, and sways, and dance.
He cannot feel the magic in wood and red paint; the ugly red-
Not the red of peppermint or blush or the red-hot-heat of dance.
He hears the quiet, whispered taunts of rats, and wishes for the
rush he feels in battle; war is exquisite and second only to dance.
He waits to catch someone’s eye and can only hope that it will
be someone kind and soft and young, someone willing to dance.
Kissing: A Pantoum
Relax, you’ll get used to it.
So ancient is the desire of one another
that you’ll get over the wetness of spit
and the worry of being caught by Mother.
So ancient is the desire of one another!
You’ll soon dismiss the roaming of hands
and the worry of being caught by Mother,
and think back to the promises of boy bands.
You’ll soon dismiss the roaming of hands,
too focused on being skillful and sure.
And think back to the promises of boy bands:
See how right they really were?
Too focused on being skillful and sure,
you won’t realize how quickly things progress.
See how right they really were,
when they said boys only see you in a state of undress?
You won’t realize how quickly things progress
and though it’s probably wrong, parts of it are so nice.
When they said boys only see you in a state of undress,
they didn’t mention the way fingers, heat, and lips entice.
And though it’s probably wrong, parts of it are so nice
that you’ll get over the wetness of spit.
They didn’t mention the ways fingers, heat, and lips entice.
Relax, you’ll get used to it.