Poems

Two short poems written for my creative writing class.

Movie night

Your fingers tighten, loosen on the bottle neck,

cradling it, an extension of

your hand. Your arm lies across the back of

the sofa, your lips pursed as you blow

across the mouth like you're whistling on a grass stem.

The movie has finished buffering. You lean forward,

tip the bottle and drink, slide your free hand

to the bowl of chips and bring one back;

its crunch happens inside your mouth, muffled

as voices behind closed doors are obscured

by the walls and by the distracted ears

of an eavesdropper. Your laugh feels like

a light jacket, warm and cozy. You yawn, and the universe

stretches, ready for bed; when your mouth closes,

so do the universe's eyes.

Eye of the beholder

I am not beautiful. My attraction lies

not in the finished product of my actions,

but in the way I dig, deep, deeper

into the reasons behind them. I have trouble crying

but when I do cry

my tears could break dams, they could

tear apart everything I've built and will make.

I do nothing casually. My attempts at

making others love me

often fall flat, but they are meant

with my heart as wide as the open ocean

giving love and asking for it in return.

I am not beautiful, but I am always my whole self.

Beauty is visual, visceral, a concept with a

physical attachment, a context with a tendency to

exert power over the beautiful, to say

Because I call you beautiful,

you must now listen to me.

I reject the beauty you see in me. I am

mine, myself; I am whole without your words

telling me that you approve of me.