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The poem I made is nothing Yes, literary, nothing! No words, no title, no rhythm, no metaphors Nothing but a single title What gives out something is odd Is it the time to say something Or no time of say a single rhyme The choice is on me The poem I made is nothing, Except one thing, that I am rhyming Without ever using a metaphor, Nor even a single rhyme to find a Perfect title to call my poem.

The feeling of thunderous pain struck my chest, causing my throat to close and ache. My eyes desperately tried to hold back the tears that threatened to burst onto my cheeks at any moment, creating a catastrophe of emotions. My bed seemed to sink around me, suffocating any words I wanted to say in that conversation. What was the conversation? I couldn’t tell you the details—my mind drowned out most of the memories. But the ache it left behind remains vivid. I do remember those long hours of the school day, as my third-grade self dreamed of the elegant ball I would attend. Pink and purple posters hung on the walls announcing, “FATHER-DAUGHTER DANCE: 7 PM IN THE HIGH SCHOOL GYM.” Normally, I would sigh and roll my eyes at the posters due to a key component; a father. Every year I envied the girls who gossiped about their dresses and the treats from the dance. But I knew that envy would dissolve with Randy. He was well-known around the small town of Oskaloosa—not only because he was a tall Black man in a predominantly white area, but also because of his extraordinary musical talent. I was known for my love of music too; that’s why we grew closer. One of my first solo performances was with Randy at the Wood Iron Grill. I was especially attached because when I was around him, I felt like every little girl in my school. So, when I asked him to the father-daughter dance, my desires blinded me from seeing the hesitation behind his halfhearted, “maybe.” Looking back, perhaps I’m being too harsh on my younger self. Randy was the only male figure I had in my life and he truly cared about me like his own family. Yet, I think his own family had instilled a certain trauma that made him skitter from any form of love. He didn’t want to corrupt me or betray that unspoken trust—but still, I can’t help but feel a sense of neglect while looking back on our interactions. That sense of neglect became reality when I called him that night in my room. Randy was no stranger to canceling plans and creating over-exagerrated explanations to protect his image. I don't know why he did this– maybe to hide his guilt of letting me down. Or simply, he took advantage of my naive trust in him. All I knew was once that familiar rambling of excuses came through the phone, I knew the answer to my question from the days prior. Betrayal and disappointment engulfed my whole body, leaving me with an aching sense of isolation. The phone echoed a beep as silence rang in my room. Thoughts spiraled through my mind in a tornado that lingered for hours, creating nightmares of tomorrow—when the girls would gush about how great the music selection was. I was Icarus and Randy was my wings. I flew too high in the sun of fatherly “love,” only for his apathy-wax to melt and inevitably send me falling into the ocean of loneliness. I want to say that he apologized. I want to say he took me to the next dance. I want to say I got over the hurt. But he didn’t apologize and he didn’t ask me to another dance. And I never got over the hurt. In fact, our relationship strained more each year like air slowly leaking from a tire. I suspect that Randy knew he had hurt me that night and hung his head low, trudging his walk of shame as I picked up my shattered pieces. Now, when the occasion arises and I run into him during an event, I can’t help but feel a numbness toward the once warm, energetic love I had for him. I may never know what went inside that man’s head during our times together but during these years of understanding, I learned to dance with no father, just a daughter.

i can’t write poetry. i don’t have the intellectual capability. give me a line of poetry to read give me a line of poetry that’s up to my speed tell me something i already know, because we all know a blonde couldn’t make up something on her own this rhymes but this doesn’t is this how you write poetry? let me abide to the pattern of thought that others want for me and let me allow you to let a phrase leave your mouth so freely without worry without thought behind the words but that’s me right? the world is corrupt amidst corruption there is art give me a line of poetry so i can finally say something smart give me a line of poetry and i’ll shout it from my lungs give me a line of poetry so it can dance off my tongue give me a line of poetry give me the line you think is the one but this isn’t about poetry i thought making art was supposed to be fun. tell me how to be tell me what to wear tell me what to say tell me why i care because i could never think up a thought of my own you think i could create art? are you dumb? give me a line of poetry and i’ll paint it like Picasso give me a line of poetry so my brain doesn’t feel so hollow give me a line of poetry to read, because speech is what makes people think give me a line of poetry to read, so the words i say finally stick give me a line of poetry because maybe if someone else writes it that line of poetry will be wanted give me a line of poetry that really makes me wonder give me a line that will leave others to ponder give me a line that even if i shouted as loud as i could and said, “i can write it better,” i could contradict myself with, “i can’t write poetry. remember?”

The girl is in the car. She’s on the way home from school. Her phone is in her pocket. She looks out the window And wonders: Is he thinking of her? The boy is talking. He’s laughing with his friends. His phone is in his pocket. He stares into space And wonders: Is she thinking of him? And throughout the day, Four different thoughts over the time change. is she still asleep? is he already awake? is she still awake? is he already asleep? Their thoughts Entwined Holding on to one another.

(not the smothering heat one would expect from summer days) On sunny days I think about you. I wonder if you’ve thought of me just as much as I think of you even now – it’s an unlikely possibility. The moments where I think about all the memories we’ve shared, I smile. Not the one people take hours to practice, not the one that makes me look good – no. It’s that cheesy smile I’ve preserved only for you. On sunny evenings I wish you’d talk to me like before. Where my presence never went unnoticed by you. Those were the days where you called me your girl, and to me… you were everything. Now days, weeks, months have gone by since I’ve last seen you message me – notice me, speak to me, stay with me. I’m your lovergirl, and you are mine.   On dark days I regret everything I’ve done to you. On days like those I wish you never met me, talked to me, noticed me. On days like those I remember why we’re not like how we used to be. On those days I wish I could apologize to you, and maybe, just maybe, you’d forgive me, or better yet you’d – forget me. On those days I needed  you the most. I’m your lovergirl, and you were mine.  On still, lonely days – I stand by myself. I watch as the hours go by while the gears in my head shift and turn. I don’t think clearly on those days – well… I never do. On those days I think of what could’ve been, and not just between us, but me.  I live in my new life now. It’s cold and spacious – not the good  kind. It’s lonely here. On late nights I cross my legs and contemplate all my doings – right or  not. I miss you, not just as a lover but as a friend. I miss the days where you’d listen to me ramble endlessly or talk about the stories I read. Now I stare into endless cold hallways and head into empty classrooms knowing that no one will ever know my name. Not the way you knew it. I was your lovergirl, and our time has run out.

It is July 5th in Halsey Hall Little blue ballerinas flit around the ancient building Far older than we can imagine Energy pulses in every nook of its sturdy wooden skeleton Our soft hands turn white as we grip the polished wood Because we still haven’t learned control A new piano plays an old song Still spry, it swirls around us  As if caught in a slipstream And when we push open the windows Because Halsey doesn't have air-conditioning The music spills onto the street and dances there too It means something to be here We can feel like the sweat on our skin The music, the dance, the walls, the rusty windows That we push open to see Clearly, the sky And the people beneath it And we’re all dancing And the music is still dancing Even when the pianist stops playing We break our linear positions, Race to the highest seat in the house Aiming for the concrete sort-of balcony That will no doubt rip  our ballet-pink tights But we don’t care Energy still pulses in us, jumping like popcorn The air is cooler outside than in our little studio And when we finally reach our destination Our bodies squeezed together like sardines on that slab of concrete The sky lights up A million stars reflected in our eyes

We shared a love, both spicy and sincere The juicy nuggets like a gentle kiss With every bite, your warmth would reappear No truer touch — I never dreamed of this But Sundays, God commands you not to stay I don’t believe, yet still I have to fast Your warmth is blocked, our closeness gone astray Starved by the Sabbath, left to fade at last Your comfort fills my stomach and my heart A warmth I know I will truly cherish But faith has built a wall to keep us ‘part And in its shadow, love has to perish Oh Chick-fil-A, you were my great mistake My palate’s joy, my religious heartbreak

The world runs on sevens. Susan learned this in the deep Texas country of her childhood. She was standing in the muggy heat, watching her Father raise his glinting blade up high before bringing it down with a thud onto the rooster's neck. It took seven minutes for Father to walk outside, go into the rooster’s pen, carry it by the neck to the chopping block, kill it, skin it, bring it back inside, and give it to Mother with a smile. Seven people. Susan dated in college, but only to meet her goal of seven boyfriends. She would have gotten married, but then she would've had to have seven husbands. There's only so much money in the world. Susan speaks to seven people. The mailman. Mother on Sunday mornings. The cashier at the grocery store. Herself. Ex-boyfriend #2. The chatty dog owner on her walking path. The subway attendant. Seven relapses. Susan doesn’t like pills, but she doesn't like dreams either. Dreams exist outside of her view, where sevens have no value. Seven joys. Susan allows herself seven methods of joy. Joy is essential to human life, after all. Susan finds joy in architecture, puzzles, occasionally geometry, algebra, baking, running on the treadmill at seven miles per hour, and carpentry. Seven touches. Touch is essential to human life. Seven flips for the light switch in the morning. On. Off. On. Off. On. Off. On. Susan cannot leave the house until she has locked and unlocked the car seven times. Seven beeps. Her neighbors don’t like her. Seven days. There are seven days in the week. Really, why hasn't everyone else realized it? The world runs on sevens. Susan prides herself on living correctly. Monday: wake up at 7 am. Have oatmeal for breakfast. Work in her home office. Walk outside for an hour. Return home at 5. Have red sauce pasta for dinner. Tuesday: repeat Monday, have alfredo pasta for dinner. Wednesday: repeat Monday, have chicken and rice for dinner. Thursday: repeat Monday, have squash soup for dinner. Friday: repeat Monday, have salad for dinner. Saturday: repeat Monday, have cheese and fruit for dinner. Sunday: repeat Monday, go to the grocery store. Have leftovers for dinner. Seven words. When Susan speaks, she likes to count her words. Sevens are good luck. Sevens mean the world continues to run perfectly, exactly, precisely, meticulously, decisively, strictly, correctly, on time. Seven minutes. It takes seven minutes of boiling to make the perfect egg—with a firm, jammy yolk but not runny and not too dry. Susan eats her breakfast in seven minutes. A seven-minute-egg, seven raspberries, 14 blueberries, and a shot of espresso. When you die, your life flashes in front of your eyes for seven minutes. Susan learned this when she was 49 years old, stuck between the dashboard of her Ford Explorer and American soil. 7 Suddenly, the grey-white sky parts, and Susan can see every color in the universe swirling around her and her expensive chunk of metal. And when Susan’s rapidly shifting eyes catch a fragment of rainbow in the broken windshield, something in the back of her mind shuts off, and Susan feels as if she is 10 years old again. In fact, she is. Susan is standing beside the schoolhouse's rusty set of swings underneath a soft blue sky. Susan can feel her old-young body buzz with unfamiliar energy, and she glances towards the dormant swing set, looking like a bed of roses in heaven. I remember this. A voice in the back of her head murmurs. Her calloused hands grip the old chains. Father walks outside. 6 Susan thinks she is alone in the playground, even though she can hear young voices echoing all around her. Susan doesn’t like being alone. Maybe once she's done on the swings, she can find the girl with the yellow hair by the monkey bars. She was always by the monkey bars. Susan throws her body back into the dewy, early summer air and swings full force ahead, out and into the open sky. Susan can hear the chopping block dragging against the dry ground. 5 Susan is falling. This isn’t how she remembers swinging, but then again, most of her playground experience consisted of sitting on a bench and observing the other children. Susan continues falling. She can’t really see where she is going, or what she is inside of (endless void or cross-dimensional portal?), but she finds that she doesn’t mind. Maybe she's on her way to heaven, and Mama was right all along about Jesus and all them. Susan pictures a friendly-looking man with a beard like her Daddy's waiting for her at the end of whatever she's inside of, and the thought makes her smile. Or maybe the swing has a defect. If it does, maybe some of her other classmates will be wherever she's going. She misses them. Father opens the chicken coop. 4 Susan can’t stop moving, and it’s getting a little scary now. Her body keeps getting shoved in every which way, going in every possible direction at once, never stopping to let her get a grip of anything. Something in the back of her mind clicks on. Susan closes her eyes because she doesn’t want to see it, but her life comes rushing back anyway, as if it's stuck inside of her eyelids. She can see a five year old Susan sitting on the porch by her Daddy with her little cloth doll in hand and she can see 20 year old Susan running out of the college lecture hall and she can see 30 year old Susan breaking up with her seventh boyfriend over the public phone because it was better than seeing his face fall when she did it in person and she didn't want to do it in her house because then she would still be the same person in the same place and nothing ever changed and she had to be outside but she hated being outside because nothing ever made sense and she needed her Mama and she wished her Daddy were still alive so that she could tell him she loved him and she’s sorry she ever stopped. The rooster squirms between Father’s grip and the stained wood. 3 Susan feels like she is pinned to the floor waiting for the ceiling to fall down on her. There is a sharp pain in her chest and a crushing weight on her legs but that doesn't make sense because Susan did everything right. She followed all of the rules. She counted to seven and lived the way humans were meant to. She never meant to hurt so many people. Susan thinks of her classmates, if they ever wondered why she stopped coming. She can’t feel the weight on her legs anymore, so that must mean this is all coming to an end. Susan is relieved. She wants to go back to her apartment on the seventh floor. She wants to see the old lady that lives across the hall and she wants her to say you alright baby? and she wants to squeak out a yes because she can't help but talk to her even if she knows she's not supposed to because that would mean Susan talks to eight people and eight isn’t the correct number. Seven is correct, and Susan has dedicated her life to living correctly. There is a thud. The rooster stops squirming. 2 Susan feels brave enough to open her eyes again because she doesn’t think she's moving anymore, but she can’t. Her eyes are heavy like her whole body, and Susan hates it because what's the point of exercising everyday if you're still going to be too heavy to even lift yourself up. Susan feels like she's been lied to. Something in the back of her head clicks off. She’s so tired. She was in a rush this morning. She panicked when she realized she forgot to turn the car on and off seven times. That's how she got in this mess. She’s too tired to care. Susan feels like she doesn’t care about anything anymore; she's just too tired. She should tap the ground, tap the dashboard, tap her keys, but she doesn’t know if it would even help anymore. Susan starts to cry. Father makes quick work of plucking every blue and red and greenish feather off the limp body. Perfectly, exactly, precisely, meticulously, decisively, strictly, correctly. 1 Susan’s mind is a haven that she burrows into. Tucked far away from the pain and the world and the nothing, Susan is still five years old in her parents back yard. It is the best day of her life. Mama is making chicken soup for dinner, and Susan gets to help her Daddy dig the pit for roasting it. The sky is big and blue in the country, and the air smells like hay. Susan practices her counting with Mama every morning, and she never stops on seven. Susan grips her little pink shovel with her little pink hands and digs. She digs and she digs and she digs. It gets easier to forget that she can’t really feel anything with every pile of dirt upturned. Maybe Mama is in the house right now making her special broth, or maybe she's peeking at Susan and Daddy from behind the thin kitchen curtains, a smile on her face. Susan keeps digging. She knows that Daddy must have killed the chicken by now, but she can’t hear the drag of the chopping block or the thud of his special knife. Susan looks down at her little pit. It's just big enough for her. Father comes back inside. He hands the body to mother with a smile.

I wanted to be yours, but my emotions were getting the best of me I realized everything I said was because I was emotionally attached to you I wanted to be yours, but it can’t go back like it was before —  I can’t wait here forever expecting you to open your eyes and see what’s in front of you I wanted to be yours, wear your last name — but the more I reached for it, the more it ran from me I wanted to feel love, but falling in love turned into sadness and anger to the point where I can’t control my tears anymore  I wanted to be yours, but the more I look at you the farther you walk away from me  I wanna be yours everyday of my life, but then all of the sudden I woke up and then realized that I wanna be yours was a dream