Extras
| Sarcastic Austin bred >18 nerd who also loves birds purple D&D folk pen & ink Tetris One Piece baking talking kissing |
of sighs I might flip through, circle with red pen
yes, that’s the one — play it for me
It won’t make you laugh. You won’t be happy you read it. It might even make you feel a little worse after reading it. You should read it anyway.
I imagine breakfast
he and I ordering the eggs-
gelatinous yolks, pregnant with possibilities,
plopped atop their white rubbery volcano.
Our sandpaper toast brushing the membrane
igniting the slow motion eruption
of hot yellow magma
running rapidly through the hash browns.
We would laugh in iambic pentameter
at the puns and alliterations
on the breakfast menu at Denny’s-
The Fabulous French Toast,
Moons over My Hammy.
We would speak only in simile and metaphor
about our frumpy waitress
a kangaroo with short front paws
and an extraneous pouch.
She would find us an hour later
yolks solidified and chunky-
still struggling to find a slant rhyme
for syrup.
(I would use cheer up).
On the ride home
in our loud car with a snake of white
exhaust trailing us,
we would marvel at the marmalade sun and
My father,
(having an affinity for the haiku) would say-
The sun is melting
burning itself to purple
behind the blue sky.
What If My Father Were a Poet? by Amye Archer
When your mother hits you, do not strike back. When the boys call asking
your cup size, say A, hang up. When he says you gave him blue balls, say
you’re welcome. When a girl with thick black curls who smells like bubble
gum stops you in a stairwell to ask if you’re a boy, explain that you keep
your hair short so she won’t have anything to grab when you head-butt her.
Then head-butt her. When a guidance counselor teases you for handed-down
jeans, do not turn red. When you have sex for the second time and there is no
condom, do not convince yourself that screwing between layers of underwear
will soak up the semen. When your geometry teacher posts a banner reading:
“Learn math or go home and learn how to be a Momma,” do not take your
first feminist stand by leaving the classroom. When the boy you have a crush
on is sent to detention, go home. When your mother hits you, do not strike
back. When the boy with the blue mohawk swallows your heart and opens his
wrists, hide the knives, bleach the bathtub, pour out the vodka. Every time.
When the skinhead girls jump you in a bathroom stall, swing, curse, kick, do
not turn red. When a boy you think you love delivers the first black eye, use
a screw driver, a beer bottle, your two good hands. When your father locks the
door, break the window. When a college professor writes you poetry and
whispers about your tight little ass, do not take it as a compliment, do not wait,
call the Dean, call his wife. When a boy with good manners and a thirst for
Budweiser proposes, say no. When your mother hits you, do not strike back.
When the boys tell you how good you smell, do not doubt them, do not turn
red. When your brother tells you he is gay, pretend you already know. When
the girl on the subway curses you because your tee shirt reads: “I fucked your
boyfriend,” assure her that it is not true. When your dog pees the rug, kiss her,
apologize for being late. When he refuses to stay the night because you live in
Jersey City, do not move. When he refuses to stay the night because you live
in Harlem, do not move. When he refuses to stay the night because your air
conditioner is broken, leave him. When he refuses to keep a toothbrush at your
apartment, leave him. When you find the toothbrush you keep at his apartment
hidden in the closet, leave him. Do not regret this. Do not turn red.
When your mother hits you, do not strike back.
Jeanann Verlee-to adolescent girls with crooked teeth and pink hair
