Ms. Widman High School Creative Writing
War hidden inside
like first knowledge
of women.
Do you know that poem, Ma’am?
Mr. Rodriquez whispers while I examine a weirdo at midlife.
I live for my visits to the gynecologist.
Accompanied by my new best friend,
she’s a constant between my legs.
Her redness makes me shiver.
My reddening face
quivering in my hoodie,
cold despite my best friend’s presence.
A fake waterfall painted on the front wall.
Push the prone figure through double doors.
An ancient woman, her face pale and horrifically wrinkled.
She binds me to mount the table.
I’ve turned cold waiting for my doctor,
a dead person, which I might be soon.
Our captive claimed he tried
to ease the boy over. Suffer
the little children. Everybody
gets baptized in the blood.
It’s out of my hands.
The sky is rank and smudged
with their aftermath.
Thin as crickets, mean
as hornets, but twice as busy, we
had flanked him at Dalton,
stood our ground in Kennesaw’s inferno.
Grime-faced night followed
poised like a prisoner, no matter
how addled or inept.
I wished
I felt
clearer.
The fact that
I haven’t been able to write at all.
I’m sorry to say I’m hardly equal
to the responsibility of appreciating such things.
I utter these words
perfectly sincere in the sentiments.
Is it something destined?
Ah, yes. I admire
almost no one.
I
fell away
broken
no
defiance.
I wasn’t
bothered.
Some way
the
future
we
asked
was near.