Lying under 
starchy white comforters, 
listening to the 
air conditioner hum
its own sweet
melody. 

My mom
fiddling with the 
chunky black radio,
turning and turning
the knob
until
the clinky static
gives way to 
soft music. 

Unfamiliar voices 
filter through like
dust particles,
gently, almost
invisibly, 
and then
the light shines 
on them and 
they're all you
can see. 

Soft, kind words, 
from an unknown
mouth, 
whispered and 
murmured as the 
neon numbers 
grow higher, 
climbing the 
ferris wheel 
until they 
reach the peak:

Midnight. 

There's something
so sacred and 
treasured about
midnight in hotel rooms.

The moon is 
kissing the dark-dark 
sky, 
the stars are aglow.

Maybe a door or 
two slam shut on

the lullaby plays on
like a river, 
a steady stream of c's
and d's, a sleepy
tune for you and me. 

the branches of the melody droop, 
nice and slow, 
and once again, 
the moon is just for show. 

glistening chords, 
shimmering arpeggios, 
the way you look, 
new york, 
i did it my way, 
drenched in wine. 

the lullaby swings, 
a faint jazzy
facade, 
and i'm not sure
if the stars hear my voice
or not. 
 

Mama is anxious this morning. Her hands, slim and smooth, like lettuce leaves, tremble slightly as they clutch the handle of Kamilla’s pram. We are headed into town, as we did daily, to fetch the loaf of bread that is permitted to each family in our community.

Klaud is walking ahead, as usual. Tati has made Klaud’s responsibilities as the oldest very clear. As soon as Klaud is of age, he is to join the Nazi Party. Tati supports the Nazis- he’s a Party member. Klaud spends a lot of time in our living room, crouched by the burning wood, listening to Tati list off all the acts Klaud will have to follow through with as soon as he is older. It seems to me that Tati already has a foot in the future; he is always three steps ahead of everyone else.

Broken rulers have no way to measure, and 
I think fragile is another word for scared to fall. 
Dusty lemons make me feel sick,
and I take back everything I just said. 
Lemon scented letters-
Hands are wild adventurers.
Iris thinks the world should move slower. 



(*written using cut-up poetry technique* from Angela Palm's Writing Like the Beat Poets workshop, March 16)

Luminescent stones leap out to rest under my feet-
candles have no place telling me it's too dark to see.
Asteriks seem like lonely perfectionists, and
my thoughts don't fit me the way I want them to. 
Is there a reason why Sundays make me so sad?
The gritty hugs from relatives make me uneasy-
marshmallows armed with stickiness.
Rough magenta crayons barely being held together, 
wax is untrustworthy. 



(*written using cut-up poetry technique*)

Blue-lined paper softened with years of being read
Kitty Kat was lonely as she wrote about faraway kingdoms and princesses with gold capes and ruby crowns
I felt as sad as a child with 2 scoops of ice cream topped with a shiny red cherry
Opening the foggy window, I fled away on top of the drops of dew that lined my grassy lawn
Iris was at Barnes and Noble and fell in love 56 times
I heard a violet shriek and then someone called my turquoise name
Even as I find love in Barnes and Noble, I still hear the violet scissors shrieking at the end of the world. 





(*written using cut-up poetry technique*)

Because sometimes 
I get this feeling 
in my chest, 
as if my heart is 
in a locked drawer, 
and no one in 
the world has a key. 

Because I've wished 
on every eyelash and 
flickering flame 
that one day 
I might hear 
your voice say my name. 

Because I spend my nights
scribbling half-full poetry 
into faded notebooks
that are too quiet
for me to share any secrets with. 

Because 4 is my lucky number-
I was born on the 4th in '04, 
there are 4 other people in
my family, I write 4 poems
about you every day. 
I think about college every 
4 minutes, 
and there are 4 letters
in my name.

Because my clock is always
off a minute, 
can never get the answer right, 
has slight antisocial issues,
can sometimes be passive aggressive, 
and might
be my soul as an object. 

Because words

age 5, standing
before a cloudy mirror, 
can't decide between purple or 
dark red hair bows.
eleven minutes pass, 
finally time to leave. 
go on, let's 
hurry, hurry, 
Iris,
jagged stickers are still my favorite
keepsakes, love is twirling around in a tutu. 
liquid dreams fill up my bones, 
marshmallow melodies play in my mind. 
nudges from reality sneak past
over meadows of thoughts. 
purple bows rule over my hair, 
queens of the umber waves. 
resting on my wrist are
seven bracelets, a pinkbluegreenyelloworange
titanic monstrosity, all the color in the world. 
uncloaked, my soul shows a thousand
vivid candles, all on fire and 
waiting to be wished upon. 
xylophone lullabies, blow out
your candles, darling girl, watch as your wish
zips into the cloudless sky. 

When I was younger, 
I liked to taunt
the candles on our
dining room table. 
I would blow
my breath
towards the flame, 
watch the light
shake and stumble, 
and just when 
it seemed like
the flame would
disappear, 
the light came back. 
I did this
over and over
as the clock
slowly
ate time
and darkness
slowly 
ate the sky.