On a Sunday full of bells,
while I still
suffered prescribed white dresses
plus the horror
of beige bloomers,
I tied my skirts between my legs
and jumped on a boy’s sweaty back,
to wrap both arms around his neck
until my vise made the demon squeal.
He never tried to steal ice cream money again;
at least, not from my red purse.
As my thirty-eighth Sprouting Grass Moon blooms,
choking my wants out of a strangled life lacks
any kind of real appeal. I think
undue violence… bores me.
My arms remain a ready vise
and my hips balance blade and hammer,
but squealing demons is a waste.
On a Sunday of distant bells,
while I am
sun-clad and life-filled,
I grin at fading thieving demons
(sip coffee) and cackle at tutu thoughts.
Process Note: this might be the most unexpected poem I’ve written for the cruellest month. I was convinced that I wanted to grab the things that bring difficulty to my life and shake them until they squealed. And I tried writing just that… I tried hard… Then I started laughing, because I realized that metaphorically kicking the living lights out of my afflictions gave me no pleasure. On the other hand, cackling while I mentally watched them squirm as their hold over me melted away, well… that made me grin like a half-crazed lunatic. I liked it. I liked it a lot *cackles witchy style*.
for NaPoWriMo with Magaly Guerrero 2015, Day 26 – Speak to Your Affliction: Metaphorically sit in front of the thing (or person) that ails you, and let your poem tell it (him or her) exactly what’s in your mind.
Poets United, Poetry Pantry 249