Dear Giles

I am writing you from a place you once lived, and seemed to really dislike. You’re gone, and I wonder if now you can see how much good we had here? Things are fine where I am; maybe better than you remember. I found that little bit of courage you swore I must have had, and I’ve been playing with it ever since.

The crabapple tree we used to eat off, where that Russian kid got beat up by his dad, that’s still here. It feels kind of out of place to me, but there it is on the side of the park without the fence. Still tall and fat and full of fruit as ever. Not everything blooms though.

Many people you used to know are no longer with us. There were the usual explanations: accidents, suicide, wrong attitudes at the wrong time, you know – everyone dies to soon. This may surprise you, but no, we have not carried that pain from year to year; we are stronger than you remember us.

Still, many of the people you loved are still as strong and vibrant as ever – and all awaiting your return. Like the way you hold onto the arms of your chair as your the tires beneath your plane skid to a stop on asphalt. Waiting. Not with hope or with fear, just waiting.

If nothing else, I hope life is easier for you where you live now, or that you learned how to live in the world you’re in – that you’ve figured out ignoring is not the same as forgetting.

I may or may not write you again. But don’t neglect to let someone know before you make your next trip back.

Char Siu Bao
(a villanelle)

The Chinese prefer pork to other meats;
It’s seasoned, roasted, packed in airy bread.
They’re best when tasted, walking on the street.

Some bakeries can make them much too sweet,
so much, we might prefer gai bao instead.
But Chinese prefer pork to other meats.

Regardless at what temperature: with heat,
or simply cooled and stacked at table’s head,
they’re best when tasted, walking on the street.

In general, prepared on baking sheets,
where soft and wet, or sweet and salty wed.
We Chinese prefer pork to other meats.

All carried home in paper bags: discrete,
then opened as through city scenes I tread;
they’re best when tasted, walking on the street.

Grandmothers often stock up on these treats
as bribery for children not misled.
The Chinese prefer pork to other meats;
they’re best when tasted, walking on the street.

(Not only is this a villanelle, but it’s in iambic pentameter son! You may not care, but I’m pleased with myself.)

Please Say Goodbye

I’m not impressed with your list of strengths.
Your best qualities. The skills and talents
in which you excel,
because I think you’re lying.

I have never known what separates me
from everyone else, why anyone should hire /
date / admire me.

But I am well-acquainted with my weaknesses;
I recite them to fall asleep.

Melodramatic. Craves yet fears intimacy.
Responds to emotions with anger and resentment.
Lacks self-awareness; avoids making decisions.
Forms strong opinions without strong reasons.

Poetry is poorly-crafted; the poet’s preferred voice
takes on a confessional quality
at the expense of good writing.

Beautiful Ones

In the 8th grade, the kids staged a protest of the Gulf War
by walking out of class all at once. Students
from three different schools participated,
marched around town, their shoulders slumped
under the weight of slogans.

And only seven of us dirty colored kids stayed behind in class.
We heard our pretty young teachers cooing
over the spirit of activism in their pristine march out the doors;
how proud they were that these kids -
their kids – were gonna make a difference.
They stood at the side exit of the building and
wished them luck, practically blowing kisses the whole time.

While in the math classroom, we seven glanced back and forth
at each other, comparing whose hair and eyes were blacker.
None of us were invited to the party; same old story. If
we had been invited, who would have gone?

We stood out. They were a GAP billboard in Nikes,
but we stood out. When they spread rumors, we
never heard them. There was no reason to tell us nothing;
our stories and histories were war. What
could you tell us about stopping one?

The next day, school was back to normal.
None of my classmates made the evening news, and
the war wasn’t over. I made plans to skip the next school dance
where the beautiful ones would relive their glory.

Since April is National Poetry Month, I am going to undertake the ridiculous project of writing a new poem every day this month. (Saturday and Sunday not included.)

Anyway, feedback is appreciated. And I encourage yall to try writing as much as you can this month too!

This is partially in response to this writing prompt.

Project Poem-A-Day: Day 1

Ribcage

My tongue tastes; conjures wetness.
It sticks to surfaces when I’m thirsty.
My throat: swallows, sings, maybe
rumbles in response to the way my brain

fears, hates, despairs. My heart beats
and does nothing else. It knows
not of the world outside my chest,
of where it pumps blood to

or from. Our language assumes nobility
it does not deserve. As though my heart
were a pool for uncried tears,
unheard laughter; but feelings

live somewhere else, maybe
my stomach’s pit, behind my eyes,
the wrong words that clumsily fall
from the space between my lips and fingers.

But leave my poor heart alone;
it never asked for this reverence.
it just wants to stay faithfully on the job:
keeping me alive until I die.