1033: Gateway Drug
"Gateway Drug"
Erika Meitner
When I asked him over beers one night
what the meaning of life was
my friend Jon replied, We all think we’re ugly,
but we’re not. And for once
I agreed with him-how seductive, the idea
that arbitrary cruelty might evaporate
if everyone felt beautiful
in their own skins. I went to talk
to the local eleventh grade class
about writing poetry, was reminded
how everyone is asymmetrical then,
heads huge and ungainly, limbs restless and taut;
the kid in the back row hiding behind a curtain of hair
carving swear words into his arm with the staple remover,
the girl in the second row sizing me up
with her jeweler’s eye. In high school
they showed us films once a year
to boost our self-esteem, keep us
off drugs-lavish multi-screened productions
with titles like The Prize, soundtracks singing,
My future’s so bright I gotta wear shades.
We are what we think we are, and one thing
inevitably leads to another-drugs to sex, sex
to cigarettes. A head leaning on a shoulder
and suddenly you’re naked, I’m naked,
air conditioner washing over us like ocean,
moon shining off the brick wall in the back
of a Tribeca art gallery, the detritus
of the party around us, trance music spinning
on a turntable, making out high like high-schoolers
in front of someone else’s locker. Remember
being the kid who had to get your lunch or math book, ask
the lip-locked couple in front of your locker to move?
Did you say, Excuse me, tap them gently?
I never had that courage, shared
a neighbor’s book, bought hot lunch. But tonight
we are as cool as our daydreams were then,
magazine pages and mirrors, straight-edge skaters,
drama queens, hair gods and punk princesses
smoking in the back row, the health teacher’s nightmare,
impossibly drugged, and when I touch
your clay lips with my iron fingers,
trace your beveled collarbone
with my fluted mouth, the tune I play
pushes hallway lockers open with gale force.
Uneaten lunches and uncovered books fly,
everything slams, and blinded
we all get a good, fluorescent look at each other.
Erika Meitner
When I asked him over beers one night
what the meaning of life was
my friend Jon replied, We all think we’re ugly,
but we’re not. And for once
I agreed with him-how seductive, the idea
that arbitrary cruelty might evaporate
if everyone felt beautiful
in their own skins. I went to talk
to the local eleventh grade class
about writing poetry, was reminded
how everyone is asymmetrical then,
heads huge and ungainly, limbs restless and taut;
the kid in the back row hiding behind a curtain of hair
carving swear words into his arm with the staple remover,
the girl in the second row sizing me up
with her jeweler’s eye. In high school
they showed us films once a year
to boost our self-esteem, keep us
off drugs-lavish multi-screened productions
with titles like The Prize, soundtracks singing,
My future’s so bright I gotta wear shades.
We are what we think we are, and one thing
inevitably leads to another-drugs to sex, sex
to cigarettes. A head leaning on a shoulder
and suddenly you’re naked, I’m naked,
air conditioner washing over us like ocean,
moon shining off the brick wall in the back
of a Tribeca art gallery, the detritus
of the party around us, trance music spinning
on a turntable, making out high like high-schoolers
in front of someone else’s locker. Remember
being the kid who had to get your lunch or math book, ask
the lip-locked couple in front of your locker to move?
Did you say, Excuse me, tap them gently?
I never had that courage, shared
a neighbor’s book, bought hot lunch. But tonight
we are as cool as our daydreams were then,
magazine pages and mirrors, straight-edge skaters,
drama queens, hair gods and punk princesses
smoking in the back row, the health teacher’s nightmare,
impossibly drugged, and when I touch
your clay lips with my iron fingers,
trace your beveled collarbone
with my fluted mouth, the tune I play
pushes hallway lockers open with gale force.
Uneaten lunches and uncovered books fly,
everything slams, and blinded
we all get a good, fluorescent look at each other.