lady lazarus

Last night, we went to Edi House for the last last last time... It made me sad! The waiter was like, oh, you should order something different! And Ashley and I were like, heck no, not for our last time! So margherita pizza it was, and strawberry and gelato for dessert. Aw, I'm going to miss Edi House. Wow, do we really only have a week and a day left? That is so insane. I cannot cannot believe it. Turned in my annotated bibliography today, and got our take-home for Creative Writing.
I was looking at all the scholarships that you can get for graduate work, and it made me all discouraged. There is not way I am going to get a sweet scholarship to study in England, which probably means I won't be studying in England, because it is so darn expensive. Argh, academic competition. I wish I could have inherited some of my parent's brains. I could have been a brain surgeon by now, or at least written the next novel on the American experience, or something awesome like that.
I know everyone has been looking forward to reading my poetry, so here is one piece. This is the one that my teacher thought was prompted by a suicide attempt, or something. So, just to let you know: No, I am not depressed. No, I did not attempt to commit suicide. No, it isn't even ABOUT suicide. Yes, I am perfectly happy. Yes, it is just a poem. :) Now, it's a sestina. (well, half of one, really) That means, the last words repeat in specified order (123456, 615243, 364124, plus the last stanza of three lines, which has all of them in it: 25, 43, 61). It's tricky. I actually messed up on the last line, so I had to change it (I put the words in a 1,6 order, instead of a 6,1). It used to read: "spilled blood congeals but not the memory, as new life rises from the dust." Like that one better, but oh well, I must conform to the structure. I know it's tough to follow, so don't think about it too much.


my looking-glass

laundry hangs out on the line, Myself there pinned. blood
gently dances, fluttering in the wind, strips cut by glass
shards of past life and love hung to dry. rain
pelts, tenderly caressing the torn bits and pieces, ribbons
blowing soundlessly: a black and white that time
forgot on an empty shelf, gathering dust.

a sigh rises from the depths of the Soul, full of dust
that plugs the air, sticky sweet in my eyes, while blood,
a running river, floats empty, dry. and time,
that slow immortal beast, lumbering plays the hourglass;
grains of sand seep slowly, form a silky-smooth ribbon
that melts and burns upon my wrist like rain.

these clouded windows, frosted with rage and rain,
reveal concealed pain. drumming pipes now lifeless lie, the dust
of my white lilies tied with your tongue’s ribbon.
and as it cut me to the Core, i saw reflected your blood-
red lips whispering (nothing) in my ear. my looking-glass
lies bleeding on the floor, shattered for the last time.

that fragile soul of glass withstands the falls of time,
hair streaming ribbons across the pillow, tears washed away with rain;
new life is birthed from the dust, while memory lingers like uncongealed blood.