To celebrate the publication of my university’s literary magazine, I’m going to post an older poem of mine that was published in this semester’s edition of the magazine.  Because I am the boss-lady, I don’t actually decide what goes in the magazine.  Instead, committees of students anonymously judge the poetry, prose and art.  They send me their selections and I reveal the authors.

The Requiem

The stairwells are littered
with the carcasses of cicadas.
Their brethren hum
a rolling roar, ululation,
in litany for the dead.

For in autumn death is splendid
as the corpses of summer insects
are shrouded in a Technicolor tapestry
and the proud skeletons
of oaks and Japanese maples,
lightened of their burdens,
graze the sky with spindly fingers.
They clip the wings of a shifting
menagerie; spring songbirds
traded for geese and gander.
Owls and bats,
patrons of the evening,
skulk in their dark haunts
of corners and crevices
while the beasts retreat
to their dens.

The air smells sweet and sharp -
of rotting
earth,
the swelling of the soil,
and the frosting
of the grass.

So… are you surprised that I didn’t get Creative Writing Wednesday off the ground in time?  No?  Me neither!  But here it is, better late than never.  I wrote this for my poetry class.  It’s not finished, but it will do for now.

Thanks to Picnik and Flickr Creative Commons search for making this button possible

The First Death in New Jersey

Under the boardwalk, the dead
fish float, bloated
and bloody, leftover hooks
in their chins.  We leaned
through the rails, crushing
our stomachs against the wood,
to count them, in the
last summer
I wore a bikini, the last
I smoked sugar
cigarettes with Chiefs
on the boxes.  We bought them clandestinely,
when our parents
thought we were buying
gummy worms and rock pops.
I let them hang from my mouth,
with fake bravery, as I tried
to mimic
my cousin’s accent.

In that last summer,
I saw my first dead body.  We ran
from the dunes,
where we were lost in the desert,
to the crowd that had already gathered
around the girl.
The lifeguard tried to pump life
back into her body, counting
one two three.  One, two, three.
Maybe her face was blue
or her ribs were broken, but all I remember
is the bathing suit – purple, with little yellow flowers.

The lifeguard stopped trying.
A small woman I hadn’t noticed before
sank next to the body.
It was all a spectator sport,
and we were only the rubberneckers.

That ending needs some work, my friends.