literature

These Are the Things

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Literature Text

I.
These are the things
There are no poems for
Perhaps it's because there isn't enough
In the moment itself
It doesn't seem important enough
To stir the desire to write
But somehow still it lingers

II.
There are no poems for the night when
I forgot my cell phone in the car
And I had to leave the warmth of home
To venture in my bare feet and sweatpants
Across the deck to find it
And when the automatic porch lights switched on
I was struck by the wonder of technology

III.
There are no poems for my brother
Who I call my twin though we're years apart
At my grandmother's funeral
I looked at him and saw the tears streaming down his face
And I reached for his hand
And he didn't let go

IV.
There are no poems for the night
My mother thought someone was breaking into our home
So she called my stepfather,
Only her boyfriend then,
And he came over with his Colt,
Inadvertently frightening her more than an imaginary burglar.

V.
There are no poems for the moment
I see someone for the first time
And I'm hit with that familiar attraction
And I imagine our whole lives together
From marriage to family to growing boring together
It feels foolish but I can't help but think,
"This is the moment we'll tell our kids!"
And then he opens his mouth

VI.
There are no poems for my mother
On the day my father remarried.
She got a bottle of wine
And a packet of cigarettes
And sat on the back porch,
Smoking each one carefully
And never smoking again
Once the pack was finished.

VII.
There are no poems for my sister
Who had never shown emotion toward me in my life
Breaking down when we were lost
And late for a party
Me in the passenger seat, young
And unsure of what to do

VIII.
There are no poems for my first cigarette
I bought the pack at the gas station down the street
At midnight on my eighteenth birthday
The cashier, who'd known me since I was young,
Grinned when I told him my purpose and handed me
Marlboro Lights, in the gold package
And I sat on my porch and smoked half of one;
Disturbed by how awful it was,
I stubbed it out and went to bed

IX.
There are no poems for when my backpack broke
On the first day of sixth grade
And my very best friend to this day,
Who was a stranger then,
Stopped and helped me pick up my books

X.
There are no poems for the hour-long block
When I watched Iron Chef America for the first time
We were on vacation, during a down time,
And as I watched Morimoto place
A flower, delicate and purple,
Next to a filet of some sort of fish
I knew
That I wanted to be him.

XI.
There are no poems for the night, eleven years ago
That my siblings and stepmother were out
And my father made us spaghetti and meatballs
We channel surfed and landed on Dumbo
We watched the very end of the Pink Elephants drunk dream,
Which preceded Baby Mine,
The love song from Dumbo's mother to him
I found myself crying, as I always do at touching movies,
And I sneaked a glance at my father,
Shocked and touched to see that he was crying too

XII.
There are no poems for the first time I cut myself
On a kitchen knife in culinary school
I was the first to do it in my class
And I remember the wave of shame that washed over me
While my brain, for one second,
Decided I was not cut out for this whole cooking thing
But I got a Band-Aid on it
And by night I had forgotten

XIII.
There are poems for lovers
And God, and conflict, and blood, and kings,
But there are no poems for the split seconds
That make up every day
The mundane beauty of life becomes too much
And when everything in life is beautiful,
How can we pick and choose
For which there should be poems?
Probably the best thing I've written to date.
© 2012 - 2024 spiceXisXnice
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