A few weeks ago, a dear friend from high school posted a poetry prompt to Twitter. They’re currently super active in the poetry scene. Even going to competitions and performing in teams, from what I can deduce from social media because I’m a creeper. I’m super proud of them, proud of who they were as a sophomore a LDHS, and proud of who they are now. (Side note: I’d love to plug their work, but I don’t know if they have a website, so I’m going to post this to FB and tag them to see. I don’t know why I’m telling you that.)
Anyway, the point of this being, I’m sharing more content with you in an effort to 1. write more, 2. see what this blog can be/feels good as, 3. show my work to grow my work. So, on Wednesdays we wear pink. And post poetry.
Here’s the poem from the prompt. It’s its X number of edits. I’m learning to edit in general. So here it is. In an ideal world, I’ll perform it and continue to hone it. In an ideal world, which is this one, because it’s not gonna change overnight so we might as well have fun with it the way it is.
Enjoy, my little clem.
She asked me what my heart was like
and I said it was like
what it was like
Texas, I said
a Texas summer, and it never stops sweating
(back home, the A/C in buildings arctic cold
your body never adjusts to the blast of artificial cold exploding from automated sliding grocery doors, I suppose this is a part of a heart too. The heat and the over adjustments to the heat. We swing too far and pump too much blood. Lightheaded.)
Texas might be my heart mapped out, split into halves, ventricles exposing veins and capillaries
vessels and musculature
a template twin of the land I was born on
too big too arrogant
delineations of latitude, longitude (how far I can love how wide how many miles to ache or break or sick or full) kin to degrees on the old Coca-Cola thermometer we kept on the front porch
Hearts, I’ll bet, are hotter than you’d like
a heat you can’t escape.
so my heart instead is a crape myrtle
saccharine barbie pink sharp against the endless cloudless sky
a wild blossom over and over, taller than most of the neighborhood kids
just sit under it
a crape myrtle the tree spits sap down on you
like a silly girl spitting at a boy she likes as he rides by on his older brother’s bike
my heart is a silly young girl spitting
crape myrtle branches against
vast landscape bordered by oceans that never cool
a handful of sands that are not beautiful but coarse and dark dangerous
someone’s roadmap ticking off towns with quick names
Hell Waco Austin Abilene Raymondville Corpus Christi El Paso
she asked me what my heart was like
and I said home.
the muscle best healed by use,
the only thing I carry everyday,
filled with blood and heat, blooms and salt water, the sweat and the dust of me.
my heart is like.