To the Last Year of My Prison Sentence
For the sake of all the wonderful and not-so-wonderful experiences I've lived through in over a decade's worth of time:
I.
Overalls,
folded blue cuffs,
stripey, sugary turtleneck
bow around the neck.
Walk in clinging Mother's hand,
unprepared
to leave the world I know behind.
II.
"I love playing with Legos,"
she announces proudly.
"She's saying that to be like a boy,"
says another.
I keep taekwondo
to myself.
III.
Rain taps at the window,
wanting in our happy,
jolly Christmas party.
I can ignore it.
Gliterry, zesty, raspberry sprinkles
on lemon-lime sugar cookies,
I decide,
are my favorite.
IV.
"Alaska" returns three-thousand,
six-hundred, seventy-two
million results.
"I was born in Anchorage,"
Mrs. Carpenter whispers
with the most genuine array of glistening,
loving,
pearly white teeth
I have seen. Alaska, I suspect,
is where I will spend my life.
V.
Chrysanthemums,
multiplication, and
lazy, sleepy best friends
are extraordinary, like the universe
nothing
could possibly change.
VI.
"You’ll need braces again,"
he tells me, apologetically. I pout,
how will I ever kiss a boy
with braces? The doctor
thinks it's a pity,
for such a pretty little lady.
VII.
No longer clinging
to her crimson cape,
too far to hear knocking.
I greet the tawny,
shrieking thunderstorm
with open arms,
lingering
in its welcoming embrace.
VIII.
I lift my pencil a hundredth time,
rewriting letters over and over
and over,
until they are just right.
I can't lead loved ones
to the grave. I'll stop,
at a hundred and eight.
IX.
Here,
it smells less like hope
and more like misery.
Glum burgundy couches,
mopey,
teary-eyed, like their visitors.
Cling to Vizzini,
walk out the doors.
Charcoal deep, hazy, blackening
inside my lungs, is what I need,
not a voice.
Not another face.
X.
I am in a foggy, smoggy room,
surrounded by cherry lipstick stains,
dead-end numbers,
because insincere toothy-grins
form knives in my chest.
I'm not sure
I could afford hospital bills.
It is clear that sincere toothy-grins
are rarely found in school cafeterias. Fortunately,
N136 has mine,
plenty of intoxicants.
XI.
The second I am hit with brilliance, I remember
curve of roses in the mid-summer sun. Siberian Huskies,
Prussian-blue glint of the Pacific
easily captured with twists of brush,
three-foot sundaes,
two cherries on top. They find their way back,
our reunion is like no other.
Carried out of sea, fresh from waves,
no longer gasping air,
I wish I could thank him,
find that extraordinary smile against mine,
in Alaska,
our shivering cold winters,
glimmering green skies.
XII.
And so,
I do.
I.
Overalls,
folded blue cuffs,
stripey, sugary turtleneck
bow around the neck.
Walk in clinging Mother's hand,
unprepared
to leave the world I know behind.
II.
"I love playing with Legos,"
she announces proudly.
"She's saying that to be like a boy,"
says another.
I keep taekwondo
to myself.
III.
Rain taps at the window,
wanting in our happy,
jolly Christmas party.
I can ignore it.
Gliterry, zesty, raspberry sprinkles
on lemon-lime sugar cookies,
I decide,
are my favorite.
IV.
"Alaska" returns three-thousand,
six-hundred, seventy-two
million results.
"I was born in Anchorage,"
Mrs. Carpenter whispers
with the most genuine array of glistening,
loving,
pearly white teeth
I have seen. Alaska, I suspect,
is where I will spend my life.
V.
Chrysanthemums,
multiplication, and
lazy, sleepy best friends
are extraordinary, like the universe
nothing
could possibly change.
VI.
"You’ll need braces again,"
he tells me, apologetically. I pout,
how will I ever kiss a boy
with braces? The doctor
thinks it's a pity,
for such a pretty little lady.
VII.
No longer clinging
to her crimson cape,
too far to hear knocking.
I greet the tawny,
shrieking thunderstorm
with open arms,
lingering
in its welcoming embrace.
VIII.
I lift my pencil a hundredth time,
rewriting letters over and over
and over,
until they are just right.
I can't lead loved ones
to the grave. I'll stop,
at a hundred and eight.
IX.
Here,
it smells less like hope
and more like misery.
Glum burgundy couches,
mopey,
teary-eyed, like their visitors.
Cling to Vizzini,
walk out the doors.
Charcoal deep, hazy, blackening
inside my lungs, is what I need,
not a voice.
Not another face.
X.
I am in a foggy, smoggy room,
surrounded by cherry lipstick stains,
dead-end numbers,
because insincere toothy-grins
form knives in my chest.
I'm not sure
I could afford hospital bills.
It is clear that sincere toothy-grins
are rarely found in school cafeterias. Fortunately,
N136 has mine,
plenty of intoxicants.
XI.
The second I am hit with brilliance, I remember
curve of roses in the mid-summer sun. Siberian Huskies,
Prussian-blue glint of the Pacific
easily captured with twists of brush,
three-foot sundaes,
two cherries on top. They find their way back,
our reunion is like no other.
Carried out of sea, fresh from waves,
no longer gasping air,
I wish I could thank him,
find that extraordinary smile against mine,
in Alaska,
our shivering cold winters,
glimmering green skies.
XII.
And so,
I do.
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| PC: R. Neogi |
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