USA

sara@brainchildren.net

Little Pink Childhood

I was born pink
with blue-blood painted fingernails
and cherry kissed cheeks,
penisless and dressable
in white lace and frilly pastel things
with hardly enough hair to hold a barrette
so Mom scotch-taped satin ribbon bows to my head
and brushed years into Rapunzel grown locks,
a pint-sized princess wanna-be
in red satin nightgowns
and glittered gold plastic miniature slippers
with click-click crystal heels
usually cracked in a week,
Cinderella tragedy at noon
until Fairy Mother replaced them,
a new pair always hidden
in her mirror, mirror closet on the wall
though I didn't have ebony hair,
or snow white skin,
or lips as red as blood,
or dwarfs of any number,
only an apple from the bottom refrigerator bin
with one small bite to match my teeth
before fainting and getting another
because poisoned apples are bit only
once (upon a time).

Do You Like Naps?

I tip-toe to the edge of campus
booby-trapped with broken emerald and amber glass
and someone's Friday night crusted puddle of fun
I can't help but play
What Meal Was I?
My guess, spaghetti
Jack Daniels on the side.

Another Power Point presentation
(I usually charge by the hour)
for the professor I call Captain Crack
daily stumbles over desks and shoelace tangles
and thirty mass emails a day
site links to www.beer.com and
a note asking how I designed my presentation
even though I got a C (his favorite letter)
for not reenacting Romper Room
to gain audience attention.

Cross my middle fingers
for another group project
to ease the professor's grading hand
and teach me teamwork
with procrastinators and slackers,
sorority formals and nose picking
priority over school work
so I'll write fifty pages
to earn them an A,
information I'll forget tomorrow.

Yet you take a number and wait in line
to repeat the same words
from the other side
you label "the real world"
(double bunny ear air quotes)

You'll miss taking naps
which I would be doing right now
if I wasn't busy writing this.

Never Eat Sour Watermelons

Months sitting next to my mother
at the kitchen table,
a steaming cup of tea in each of our hands
(even though I prefer hot cocoa
with mini marshmallows)
fogging my mother's glasses
like a child's breath on a cold window.

Flabby Abby Cat, proud paperweight
pink velvet stomach hanging
(results of a gallon automatic feeder
and neurotic aggressive licking)
on piles of wallpaper sample books,
strips of periwinkle and
pale canary paint swatches
and flaps of sage colored fabrics
for my new window seat,
tied in a palette of Monet strokes
swirled on bed linens
unfit for a dorm mattress.

She plants lavender in earth
outside my window
for the breeze to carry in the morning
and hangs three framed photographs of
tulips robbed of color
above my head board,
straightening them daily
even though I'm not there.

Now helping me wrap them in tissue
to prevent seven years bad luck
as I place them in a box beside Abby
(cardboard and duct tape addict)
who thinks she's coming with.

Five fingers spread out the car window
and a small sprig of flowers plucked
from the blossoming bush
outside my window
tucked in the visor above my head
while I recite never eat sour watermelons
toward the setting sun before leaving
to remember what direction I'm heading.

Why?

Caramel Café Au Lait
ornamented with a
kissed lipstick print
to match my lips
so I smear the rim with my thumb
(a spoon-shaped odd thing)
before offering him a taste,
a kindergarten flashback
to the practice of sharing
with hidden motive
to prove mine is better than his.

Hold the cooties.
Excuse me, staphylococcus bacterium.

One large strong-straight coffee steams
as he meticulously presses
black ink into paper.
Microscopic Penmanship 101--
a class populated only by
male Bio majors.

Medical Terminology Simplified
yet not enough for the dominant half of my brain
as I ask the difference between
right and left-brained people.

Artsy Fartsy and two shrugged shoulders
not an answer to converse with
and so I write
my nonsensical rambles of
koo-koo-ka-choo
blah blah blah
when he scribbles why?
in the top margin of my notebook
in smeary, wet ink,
confusing me with whether he asks
why I debate the difference
between right and left brained people
or why we're still angry about
pointless tiff number
one hundred twenty-three
from breakfast.

Impulsive explosion
on my part when
the strawberry jelly
on my bagel slipped
into the hole while
he was using my knife for
peanut butter.

© Copyright 2000, Sara Carter.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.