Hi, so a friend of mine is running this online writing workshop this summer, and I’d love for you guys to apply! I’m applying as well and really looking forward to seeing what comes out of it. :]
“Something VERY exciting will be occurring this summer: the first ever annual Adroit Journal Summer Poetry Workshop! This will be an online writing workshop/opportunity to share work and gain exposure to dark horse poets of the current and past generations. The editor-in-chief, Peter LaBerge, has decided to extend this opportunity up to 10-15 high school or college students and 10-15 adults.
APPLICATION DEADLINE: June 1, 2013
NOTIFICATION: no later than June 5, 2013
with her father’s whiskey on her breath
and her mother’s smile on her lips.
She is a fisherman’s daughter: sailor knots
and slick yellow gloves and bait that tremble in the bucket,
worms not quite dead yet. She is lulled to sleep
by the clumsy songs that the ocean lures from her father’s chest,
his voice deep and smooth like a fish spine.
Each night, her father tells her what the sea
has told him, and he pulls apart her braid
like it is something soft and fragile.
She is fifteen this summer,
pomegranate exploding, bleeding
like ink onto her skin. The fruit are ripe,
picked under the warmth of shaded, diluted sun.
She is a fisherman’s daughter: capable of knotting rope
thicker than her waist, capable of gutting
yellowtail and flounder with only a pocketknife,
capable of pulling on her father’s boots
and painting waves on her cheeks with her mother’s kohl.
She is capable of throwing the fruit against the shed
until they’ve made a Pollock of flesh and juice. She is capable
of pulling knots out of her own rusty, sunset hair,
and this girl is a women now, isn’t she.
Whenever I pray,
a dog somewhere dies.
My mother can’t look me in the eyes anymore.
I sleep with my contacts in
and I get sweats at night. I’ve gained six
pounds since December
and I’ve lost four friends and two possible
lovers. I bought two bamboo plants last week
and I’ve lied about six things since Wednesday,
(your haircut looks nice, I’ve watered the plants, I ate
already, I’ve got a test tomorrow, this isn’t your shirt,
I love you). Sometimes I think I’d be better off quiet.
I cheated on two math tests in the last year
and I want to learn how to stop bending
and finally break.
this is how we unfold;
a mattress is bruised yellow
and water stains the ceiling a moldy grey.
it is 1994 and your mother’s skin
is a flushed tan under the moon’s glare.
it is 1994 and the crickets beat the ground
like a crescendo.
here is the truth:
your father kissed your mother
like a promise.
19 years later
and people say you have your father’s blue eyes.
i see something like summer in them
and i cannot trust the bunny rabbit in you,
still wavering on flight.
this is how we unfold;
we unfurl like the week-old carnations
from the supermarket that you buy only
when you make a mistake.
here is the truth:
you kissed her like a promise.
you kissed me like a promise.
We teach ourselves how to cure razor burn
with honey and oil, and how to curl our lashes
using safety pins, and how to fling curses
and other big girl words into the sand of Jones Beach
like an apology;
We lick the back of our teeth
and our tongues catch on the cracks
from lost enamel because our older sisters
taught us that the toilet can be our best friend
if we want it too. We ignore the silver
scars on our fingers. We ignore the burn
on our throats. We ignore Lisa who isn’t like us
because she’s diagnosed and she’s in the hospital now.
We pretend we are women. We tell fraternity boys
we are sophomores at NYU and Columbia
and they eye the shorts our mothers said we couldn’t buy
and smirk with canine teeth. When they kiss us, they pretend
we aren’t lying, and we do the same.
There are bonfires that sputter and bikinis that stretch
too tight and the weekend we spent in Jane’s summer
home in Montauk, our legs so long we seemed impossible.
There is the afternoon at the pool where we
pour vodka into our water bottles and tanned drunk.
There are morning afters and the taste of Advil
on hung-over tongues.
Our mothers have doe eyes and our fathers sigh
when we ask for money for tank tops
and sterling silver belly rings and nail polish,
and it is a summer of firsts. The first time we
examine the geometry of our bodies, the first time
we lick the salt off a shot glass, the first time
we bite our lips and say ‘I am in love’.
We did not love those boys, we did not love
the heat, the skirts, the air, the city. We loved
the girls we thought we were, and at 16, that,
that was okay.
If 1/4 of my followers donated just one dollar to my new literary journal Winter Tangerine Review, we’d have more than double our goal! Literally one dollar- less than the price of a cup of coffee, less than the price of a bottle of soda, less than the price of a new notebook- just one dollar will make a huge difference. You can also pre-order a copy of our first and second issue, if you’d like! We only plan to sell a hundred print copies of our first issue so pre-order to insure your copy! Please help out!
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