This week we have an aptly titled piece of raw confessional poetry by D.S. West from Colorado. This poem takes the reader to back to the tragedies of childhood and invites them to see things with the eyes and temperament of a child.
Self-hate is skein of unheard-of wire
pressed to the outlet by a look you gave.
Your response to unfavorable local weather–
I am such a narcissist in here, majority of thoughts
mirrors to flatter, while
the black factory shoots plumes of tar–Why try?
The planet is ruined. Too late, Chuck; this is karma
or a brain that took too many shots to 2 AM tab
being locked outside hot summer days, guzzling
two-liters alongside single-serve microwave dinners.
For my sixth grade science project,
my mother helped me cut a birdhouse out
a plastic two-liter.
Honorable mention: “Chuck, honey?
Will you go in and buy
your Mama some cigarettes?
I don’t have a bra on.”
“I’m only ten.”
“Well shit fire! What good
are you?” Huffing out the car
with black false teeth,
I have to remind myself
these are not the twin trailers
on unnamed gravel road, and
the next one of you to say
“Get over it,” I’ll try harder
to not tell you you’re right,
to confuse smug satisfaction
for salve, aloe vera, a dirty rag so long as
it’s sincere, genuinely soft– a surface safe,
to soak through.
This poem uses its raw images to gain traction with the reader and suck them into its world. The dissatisfaction the child feels at the end of the poem is almost tangible in its bitterness.
Join us next week for even more work from talented authors!