Moth

Image courtesy of uzumewinter (flickr.com)

Winter rubs its moth wings on us:
plucked from the body,
they fall apart.
Leave their silver-lining
dustings on our cheeks.
Those hot swollen things muffle our voice in
a heap of broken images. We’re penitents
in a confessional of snow.
Although no one will climb
beyond the screen
until spring,
we wait for that company.

Winter rubs its moth wings on us:
Silt-filled river sprinkled
all across our clothes.
Paler than before, we
spend minutes counting
hours, watching crossed crooked limbs
crackle in black
against the wind
like they’re burning.
Breathing we
cross crooked limbs
to cover what we’ve left out.
Cold face glows
loudly through the powdered silence.

Image courtesy of beinggreen (flickr.com)

Apathy’s a pretty word
Wetted ash upon my
suit is too.
I don’t shake myself
clean nor beat the
filth loose—
I find the moth-silver
keeps me warm. I
breathe easily now,
and I dance
on the hot glass.

Aaron Handloser is a 17-year-old high school senior living in North Little Rock, Arkansas. He attended the Rhodes College Summer Writing Institute, and is planning on attending AppalachianState University to major in English. After college, he wants to teach high school EnglishLiterature. He enjoys bike rides and long, romantic walks to the fridge.

YARN is super excited to bring you this won’t-find-it-anywhere else writing by 5 Under 35 winner John Corey Whaley, and his friend Randi Anderson.  We know you’ve seen Corey’s novel “Where Things Come Back,” the first YA novel to be recognized in the National Book Founation’s 5 Under 35.  Now you can read him in a whole new genre–the scariest of the scary, poetry….

The Random Word Challenge

So, a few years back, Randi and I decided that we both needed something to kick start the creativity in our writing.  I was teaching public school English and Randi was working on her collection of brilliant artworks—so we both challenged each other to write, since writing was one of the reasons we’d become friends several years before at Louisiana Tech University.

I’m not sure whose idea it was to exchange lists, but that’s exactly what we did: We devised a plan to give one another a list of ten random words, with one bonus word.  The assignment was this: Use each word to write an original poem or short story (flash fiction—one page or less in length) by a certain date and then share each with each another.

We couldn’t find both lists that resulted in the works included, but here is the list that Randi sent me so many years ago (care of Gmail archives).

Image courtesy of MinimalistPhotography101.com (flickr.com)

1. window
2. atlas
3. wire
4. opaque
5. casserole
6. figurine
7. thistle
8. storage
9. chink
10. hackney
Plus: snorkel

The assignment was an instant boost of creativity for me, and I think for Randi as well, because both of us had no issues in completing the assignment within the allotted time.  (I want to say we gave each other a week or so, maybe even less time).  This was a great way to share original works with a friend without the pressure of judgment or harsh criticism.  The project, after all, was mostly for fun and nothing else.  But, as you can see, I think each of us found a few words from one another’s lists that inspired some deeper level of meaning and inspiration—and that’s something that has stuck with me: That the most random, off-the-wall, seemingly meaningless things can still inspire creativity and force one to look inside of oneself for something that he/she may not have known was there, waiting to be written and explored.

Opaque.

The sheer opacity we’re experiencing together has led me to conclude the following:
We are all alone.
So alone
In fact,
That we’ve been fooled into thinking we’re not.
And that’s when they get you.

I don’t ever see you or her or him or any of us anymore.
I see words on a screen
And I hear beeps in my earbuds
And I feel my heart breaking as the light reflecting on my face is filtered slowly out.

There is a dimmer switch on the world that we all turn down together.

Image courtesy of PaulS (flickr.com)

Atlas.

I can see my house from here
And I smell crayons
And Teddy Ruxpin
And thick plastic that you can’t bend or break
And there’s a Lego in my nose
And my brother’s G.I. Joes are all over the floor
And my mom is screaming
And my dad is gone
And it’s my house,
I can see it

Clear as day.

I can draw it on a map

With scented markers that don’t smell like any chocolate I’ve ever smelled

And I can send it to you with a pigeon from my pirate ship.

Storage.

I wish I could save you onto a flash drive that dangles from my key chain
And plug you into any computer I come across
And you’d be there
With me
In all of your glory
And I’d ask you if you’d like some music
And you’d say
Why yes I’d love some music
And I’d download Sufjan Stevens songs into your brain
And we’d hum “Chicago” while I work on my portfolio at a coffee shop
And pretend to be more important than everyone else
And when I make a typo you would stop me and say something like
Hey, now, you know better than that mister
And I’d laugh
And you’d laugh
And then I’d threaten to delete you
Because that’s the sort of games we’d play
If you were on my flash drive
And I was in complete control
But you know
And I know
That I would never delete you
That it’s just a joke
Because that’s what we do
And how we are
We joke about being deleted
And I joke about downloading porn onto your flash drive
And you don’t laugh like I expect you to
And one day I open up a Word document that you’ve created
And it reads as follows:

Dear you, I think that porn joke was very inappropriate and I’d appreciate it if you’d just go ahead and cut and paste me into an email and send me to one of your more attractive friends who doesn’t use his sense of humor to make people feel uncomfortable so often.

And I’d secretly make a copy of you for old time’s sake
And send you to Phil.
Phil is a stand-up guy.
And he has a Mac.
And I don’t think you’re compatible with that format.

And by Randi Anderson…..

Cookie

Image courtesy of scubadive67 (flickr.com)

I walked in and it smelled
Like lemons.
There was a new hand towel
In the bathroom
And lines in the carpet
From the vacuum
And I knew you’d made this effort
On my account—
And I loved it.

You fixed me a glass of water
And offered me a cookie
Because that’s what nice people like you
Do when they have guests
They offer them cookies
And small talk.
Only your talk wasn’t so small.
It was deep.
And I loved it.

Behavior

Image Courtesy of autowitch.com (flickr.com)

“Be on your best behavior,” she said.  And that is what she meant.  There was to be no jostling or giggling or chattering.  No horseplay or humming or twiddling of thumbs.  This was the kind of place where arms belonged at one’s sides and hands were safest in pockets or laps.  This was a formal, fragile place intended for people who were stiff and still.  It had only been a little thing in this fragile place on a shelf.  One very small, but beautiful object of glass with an inner glow.  And only one finger had risen to touch this object’s smooth glass side.  But as finger and glass connected, it seemed to tip on its own.  It tumbled headlong right off the shelf, landing next to his shoe.  A thousand tiny pointed shards sprinkled across the floor and that lovely, soft glow was gone.  As he looked down at the mess he’d made tears softened what he could see and blurred the sharp edges of all the broken pieces.  He cried for the beauty now lost, but more than that he cried for himself and the punishment this would reap.  “Be on your best behavior,” she’d said.  And that is what she’d meant.

John “Corey” Whaley grew up in the small town of Springhill, Louisiana, where he learned to be sarcastic and to tell stories. He has a B.A. in English from Louisiana Tech University, as well as an M.A in Secondary English Education. He started writing stories about aliens and underwater civilizations when he was around ten or eleven, but now writes realistic YA fiction (which sometimes includes zombies…). He taught public school for five years and spent much of that time daydreaming about being a full-time writer…and dodging his students’ crafty projectiles. He is terrible at most sports, but is an avid kayaker and bongo player. He is obsessed with movies, music, and traveling to new places. He is an incredibly picky eater and has never been punched in the face, though he has come quite close. His favorite word is defenestration, which is the inspiration for his second book. “Where Things Come Back” is his first novel.

Randi Anderson is an artist and stay-at-home mom who currently resides in Texas with her husband, Josh, and their two-year-old son, Frazier. She loves running, traveling, and writing when time allows.

Image courtesy of Katie Harbath (flickr.com)

Boom

From separate blankets
we watch weeping willows
burst and bloom in the air.

July explosions:

sky fire
easing the darkness
three seconds at a time.

So much like your hand
burrowed in a tiny grave
of beach sand,
just out of reach.

Water Breeze

That night in the creek
we crept upstream,
kept to the big stones
and trusted debris.

Kat tells me fear is a sham
and steals three plums
from a backyard tree.
She bites into one:
fear is a sham, she says,
the way it takes a voice
without having one of its own.

Image Courtesy of Angie Vianzon (flickr.com)

I smile at the plums,
afraid she will know
that most nights this voice
feels like a box of all white crayons
or that spout cranked open after so long,
all squeaks and speckled belches.

Perhaps tonight is different
with our heels in water, the moon
in wisps of your hair
like a bulb flash.

So I agree
and watch minnows lunge
at the plum bits you sailed downstream.

Theme Park

Hour two of the wait,
our lips counting passengers ahead:
clusters of eight, eight, eight, eight,
till we are one and two.

Finally the platform:
I lunge for the middle car,
the quick-fix
but you squeeze my arm
and offer two free passes
to an eager pair behind;

you reassure me
from the corner of your mouth,
the back gets all the hill.

Then the crest,
with the wind, the night—
your secret and in my chest,
the pledge of new bones.

Beneath us
the boredom,
the gum walls,
the lady in teal asking
to stay off the rails.

Joel Walton teaches English and Philosophy at a high school in Worthington, Ohio.  His favorite things in life are popsicles, mind-enriching films, basketball, and unhurried human interaction.  Joel recently proposed to his ideal playmate for life, Amy, who shares his belief that poems are a good defense against trivial living.

Image Courtesy of Thomas Hawk (flickr.com)

Annie Donwerth Chikamatsu won our Second Annual Candy-Cookie Poem Drive & Contest!  She will be receiving a copy of Shel Silverstein’s latest posthumous book of poetry, “Everything On It”!

Hard candy might last longer
But taffy gives me more to do–
the back and forth of pull and chew.

Thanks to all of you who entered!!!

Pole Dancers

Image Courtesy of Katie Schenk (flickr.com)

Lovers
on a subway
ready to ride

Grip the pole and—

“Hold on, Baby. Hold on.”

We cling to
-gether

In seren
dip
itous
delight

“Where to?”

“Don’t know.”

No
cosmic explanation
reason for being
or specific destination
has brought us here

“Hold on, Baby. Hold on.”

Clinging
in a desperate
embrace of
love
lust
laughter
and longing
wanting
to believe

“Hold on, Baby. Hold on.”

We’re on a
Non-Stop
One-way
Express
Direct
You and me babe
To the end-
of the line

ride.

Musing from the London British Museum

"the world from here" courtesy of Iain Simmons (flickr.com)

Apollo,
god of Greece,
is mounted trunkless
in the British Museum

Head
cast in several pieces.
Hair, each lock coiffed.
Eyes inlaid.
Lips plated red.

To visit his leg,
you must travel to the Louvre
in Paris.

I stand here
in London.
My heart,
in the west.
My head,
in the east

And I know
how Apollo
must feel
scattered about
in bits
and pieces.

Mutable Matters

Cupid at the Philadelphia Museum of Art courtesy of Jeffrey Beall (flickr.com)

Did you know, he said
suspension in cars
is built on a system
of imaginary numbers?

I believed him.

But—
I opened the hood and stood
suspended
by the whirr and purr
of the illusion

Did you know, he said
movement is a deception
the flying arrow
remains motionless
despite our perception?

I believed him.

But—
I opened my heart
and stood motionless
waiting for cupid’s dart
to negate the notion
prove the emotion

And love, I asked,
also an illusion?

So he opened his arms
and pulled me in
to a field charged
with sweet illusions
where no matter
between us mattered
but our sweet
delusion

Anna Levine is doing a blog tour right now for her novel “Freefall“–check it out!  Born in Canada, Levine has lived in Israel for over 20 years.  Levine’s latest novel, “Freefall” was published with Greenwillow/Harper Collins. She has also published with Front Street/Cricket Books, and Karben Publishers. She has published award winning poems and short stories in American children’s magazines. Levine has lived in Europe and the United States. This summer she was a guest on a Writer’s Retreat in Val David, Quebec, Canada working on her next novel set in Italy. When not on a retreat, Levine is at home in Israel where she lives with her husband and two sons.

Green Grass

Image courtesy of Dennis Hill (flickr.com)

On
both
sides

there
is
grass

as
much
as
the
sun
shines

and
rain
falls

along
the
road.

Image courtesy of Patrick (flickr.com)

Studying

Danny P. Barbare resides in Greenville, SC. He has been writing poetry for 30 years. He enjoys writing in free verse.

By Allison Malecha

Distortions

Remember the night in June
when we hijacked your dad’s speedboat, armed
with licorice and not-so-chaste intentions
breaking midnight’s calm with cannonballs
and waves of laughter, and the water
wrapped around like silk robes?

I don’t.

I remember goosebumps
under the blanket of summer air
at the thought of what you wanted,
fragile screams bubbling through the water
after hitting the surface like ice,
a fear of drowning in the hands
of Minnetonka’s asphalt colored waves.

Funny how the stars play tricks on you
the moonshine twinkling in your eyes
blinded you
to the malaise churning across my face.

Creed to Deal

Photo courtesy of dcis steve (flickr.com).

I believe in the power of Advil
to sweep this throbbing in my head away
and that vivacity requires only one 5 o’clock a day.
I believe the underbelly of my eyelid
is more necessary than the sunrise.

I believe running numbs racetrack thoughts—
I don’t stop until fire grips my calves
and fatigue fills me with weights.

I believe in the thesaurus, in the grassy
taste of a new word on my tongue
in the power of Twain to pull a veil
across Worry’s eyes—at least for a while.

I believe there is nothing wrong in believing
in high heels, lip gloss, and mini
skirts as solutions to sadness
or in knowing that polyester will always
pull at the wrong place in my self-esteem.

I believe in garlic over cinnamon
and that gum is a quick fix for arachnophobia.

I believe Mocha understands me better
through her puppy eyes than Thomas Epps ever will
through my articulated words. I believe skinned knees
and Disney band-aids will patch my broken heart.

About Allison: She’s  a college freshman at Columbia University currently studying French, Czech, and the humanities. Aside from being Style Editor for the “Columbia Daily Spectator,” in her spare time she also likes to indulge in reading magazines, writing poetry and short stories, and exploring the hidden corners of New York.

Summer 2011 “Re-Read” Update: Allison is now a declared Comparative Literature and Society major in French and Czech at ColumbiaUniversity and just got back from a month-long creative writing program (in English) in Paris.

Longevity is difficult to attain and maintain

YARN is thrilled to bring our readers an interview with Sonya, AND three poems from her newest novel. For even more Sonya follow her on Twitter, visit her author website, and “Like” her Facebook page.

Writing Process:

YARN: What does your writing process consist of, from the idea to publication? Do you outline, draft, revise? What is your favorite part? Your least favorite?

SS: I begin by noodling around, writing a few poems. There’s usually an “aha!” moment, when my character introduces herself to me, and I begin hearing her voice. Then I look for a story to tell about her.

But, with the book I’m writing right now, I decided to try something different—to write a loose outline before I even begin. So far, this seems to be going really well. Instead of feeling like I’m wandering around blindfolded, in a long dark tunnel, I feel like I’m skipping through a sun-filled meadow. Not really. But I do feel a lot less stressed, because for once I actually know where I’m going!

I love revision because it’s so much easier to make something better, than to make something from scratch. My favorite part of writing is when my character begins to take on a life of her own, and I get the awesome sensation that she’s dictating the story to me and I’m simply writing it down. On days like that, I feel like a writing goddess. My least favorite part is when I know what I want to say, but I can’t figure out how to say it. On days like that, I feel like I’m in writing prison, serving a life sentence. But luckily, I don’t have too many days like that…

YARN: In your new book, “The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus,” your narrator confronts writer’s block while on deadline to publish a book. What advice can you give teens who might be struggling with writing assignments and need to get unstuck before a due date?

SS: A sure fire cure for writer’s block is to stop worrying about whether what you write is going to be any good or not. I always assume that what I write will be really terrible. And my own first drafts always are. But I have to write that bad version first, so that I have something that I can work on and eventually improve. You’ve got to remember that even if what you write is awful, you can revise it and keep on revising it, until what you’ve written is good. Maybe even great! Believe that, and your writer’s block will be history.

YARN: You’re known for writing in verse, but we’re sure you know lots of prose writers. From what you’ve gathered, is there anything markedly different about writing novels in verse rather than prose? Have you ever tried a novel in prose?

SS: I’ve never tried to write a novel in prose. The idea sort of scares me. But that’s exactly why I will try it someday—I like to push myself to my limits.

I think the biggest difference between writing a prose novel and writing a novel in verse, is that in a prose novel there’s a lot more padding, a lot more description, a lot more detail. In a novel in verse everything needs to be stripped down to its barest essentials. And with poetry, you’ve got to think about how the words look on the page, too, which you don’t have to consider when you’re writing a novel. So that adds another layer of difficulty to the process.

YARN: Wow, you’ve also been a film editor! Since storytelling is so important for that art as well, can you tell us a little bit about how being a film editor has informed your writing?

SS: Oddly enough, it turns out that being a film editor was the perfect training ground for becoming a poet. Because when I’m writing a poem, I’m dealing with the very same issues that I dealt with when I was editing a scene. Only I’m using images in poems, instead of images on film, to tell my stories. All the techniques I learned as a film editor, about how long to hold on a certain shot, and whether to go in for a closer look, or to observe a situation from the distance, everything I learned about how to manipulate the viewers’ emotions with the rhythm of a scene, all of that helps me to make my poetry as rich and as emotionally charged as it possibly can be.

Your Books:

YARN: You’ve written a number of YA novels, but you just published an adult novel, “The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus.” What’s it like to transition between writing adult and YA novels? Do you ever want to put a warning on your adult books for your teen readers or their parents?

SS: The transition between writing novels for teens and writing for grownups was a smooth one. I’d written four novels for teens, and thought it might be fun to write a book in the voice of someone closer to my own age. The only difference between the book for adults and the books for teens is the age of my main character.

And I’ve been delighted to hear from a bunch of teens who say that even though “The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus” is about an older character, they like it just as much as my other books. Maybe that’s because they can relate so well to the character’s teenage daughter.

Have I felt the need to put any warnings on my books? Hmmm…not yet. But maybe I should start! Something like: WARNING: THIS BOOK MIGHT MAKE YOU CRY.

YARN: “Stop Pretending: What Happened When My Big Sister Went Crazy” was inspired by an extremely personal poem you wrote as assignment for a poetry class you took at UCLA. How often do personal experiences inform your writing?

SS: “Stop Pretending” was my only autobiographical book. But everything that has ever happened to me, informs the poems I write. I may not always be writing about experiences that I’ve actually had, but I’m always writing about feelings that I’ve had.

YARN: “What My Mother Doesn’t Know” showcases young love.  Sophie experiences a rather physical-attraction-based fling and then finds a true connection with a boy for whom her attraction grows along with her appreciation of him as a friend. Why was it important for you to show Sophie experiencing both of these types of relationships?

SS: I wanted to help the homely guys of the world get dates! I’m only half-kidding…I guess I wanted my readers to stay open to the idea of love coming in all sorts of different  packages—sometimes even in surprise packages.

YARN: “What My Girlfriend Doesn’t Know” picks up Sophie and Murphy’s story, giving it a second chapter. Is there another character you’ve written that you would enjoy revisiting and writing about again?

SS: Funny you should ask! That’s exactly what I am doing! There was a minor character in “One of Those Hideous Books Where the Mother Dies” named Colette. When I began writing the young adult novel I’m working on now, I realized that Colette would make the perfect “star” of this story. It’s been fascinating getting to know her better, because it turns out that she’s a big fat liar. So I never know if what she’s telling me about herself is true…or not.

YA:

YARN: What YA writers do you think aren’t getting enough attention these days?

SS: All the authors who are writing novels that have no vampires, werewolves, zombies or unicorns in them.

YARN: What poets/poems would you recommend to a reluctant poetry reader?

SS: On my website, there’s a huge list of novels in verse.  This would be a great place to start—especially with “Make Lemonade” by Virginia Euwer Wolff, and “Home of the Brave” by Katherine Applegate.

And, to give you an idea of what my new book is like, here are a few from “The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus”:

Christmas in Cleveland

The four of us have gathered
to watch the “world premiere”
of the video montage
that Michael made for my mother.

There’s baby Samantha,
lying on her back in her crib—
floating on her little sheepskin cloud,
crowing along with her mobile’s tinkling song,
gazing up at its spinning pastel birds,
her arms flapping away
as if she wants to join them.

There’s Samantha dressed as Tinker Bell,
trick-or-treating for the very first time.
She runs up all the front walks
chanting, “Twick or tweet! Twick or tweet!”
But as soon as each door opens,
she clams up and buries her face in my skirt.

Photo courtesy of micala (flickr.com).

There’s Samantha doing a puppet show.
Wolf puppet says, “Hi!”
Bunny puppet says, “Hi! Hi!”
Wolf puppet says, “Hi! Hi! Hi!”
Bunny puppet says, “The end.”
Sam says, “Now I’ll do another one!”

And there she is, having a tea party
with Monkey, Wendy, Tess, and Laura,
sipping chocolate milk from teensy china cups
and nibbling on tiny pink cupcakes.

I glance over at my daughter,
all grown up now,
who raises an eyebrow and says,
“Did you bake those cupcakes for us?”
“Yes.”
“And you made those place cards, too,
with our names all spelled out in glitter?”
“Uh huh.”
“Even that place card for Monkey?”
“Yeah…”

“Mom,” Sam says, shaking her head,
“you were out of control!”

But then
she flops down next to me on the couch
and gives me a bone-crushing hug.

Graduation Day Snapshot

Even as I click the shutter
to capture this moment forever—

Photo courtesy of David McKim (flickr.com).

Samantha’s swirling blue curtain
of robes,

her classic square hat
tipped at a rakish angle,

her hair cascading down from beneath it
like a shining brunette waterfall,

the glimmer in her eyes
so full of future…

Even as I click
the shutter

I can almost hear
her daughter saying,

“Wow! Look how cute mom
was when she was my age…”

And I can almost hear
her daughter saying,

“Omigod! Look at Grandma’s
weird old-fashioned hairstyle…”

To the One-Pound Bag of Oreos I Just Bought:

Photo courtesy of cartel82 (flickr.com).

It’s so sad
to think

that just moments
from now

you
will be gone

and I’ll
be a cow.

Sonya Sones is a multiple-award winning writer, and in particular writer of one of the American Library Association’s list of “The Top 100 Most Banned Books of the Decade!” for her second novel, “What My Mother Doesn’t Know.”  (To find out why, please see page 46.)

She was born in Boston and overprotected in the nearby suburb of Newton.  Before becoming a poet, Sonya was a struggling poet. She was also an animator, a baby clothes mogul, and taught filmmaking at Harvard University. Then, she moved to L.A. to work as Martin Scorsese’s personal assistant—but was soon fired, because she was lousy at bringing coffee.

Sonya went on to work as the still photographer, a production assistant on a Woody Allen movie, and a film editor.  Eventually, Sonya gave up showbiz to become a young adult novelist. Her books have been highly successful, despite the fact that there are no vampires in them:

All of her novels are in verse–so cool!  Her first, “Stop Pretending,” received a Christopher Award and was a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize.  See above about her second infamous novel.  Her third novel, “One of Those Hideous Books Where the Mother Dies,” received a Cuffie Award from Publisher’s Weekly—for the Best Book Title of the Year.  And her fourth novel, “What My Girlfriend Doesn’t Know,” received the “Omigod, Having A Mother Who Writes Teen Novels Is SO Embarrassing Award,” from her fourteen-year-old daughter Ava.

Sonya newest book, “Hunchback,” her first novel for “grownups,” leapt onto Los Angeles Times Bestsellers List three weeks after publication. It’s a coming of middle-age story about learning to grow old disgracefully…but there’s a teenage character in it, too, so she hopes it will appeal to all ages.

Para-stalsis

Photo courtesy of David Wild (flickr.com).

I like men
who provide food for thought.
They are rare, though,
at best, medium rare.
They ruminate, like cows,
with fewer stomachs,
less soulful eyes.
I like when they beef up
my neurons,
force-feed tough concepts,
stimulate brain-farts and
epiphanies sans stink.
I don’t eat men like air,
like Sylvia did, but ingest
the best like a cool brook
in abominable August.
I like men who make me
forget their gender,
but manage to feed me mine.

Color-Blind

photo © 2009 riccardo | more info (via: Wylio)
If you look into a man’s eyes
bluer than your own
and can’t recall the place
where sky and ice clone –
(alien landscape rocked inside
the breeze’s peace)
(feeling afraid yet so at ease) –
then you have never dreamed,
have mistaken the breeze for reality
nothing has ever been true
color is a thing unknown to you.

Stealing the Romance From the Sky

photo © 2009 Brian | more info (via: Wylio)
Oh, but he was only doing his job.
Colors were a spectrum,
numerical, calculable.
Constellations went from
pictures to physics.
The music of the spheres
was gravitational pull.
There was helium; there was dust.
Stars I wished upon were dead.
I proved poor in astronomy
only out of protest.

And she was just being a friend,
saying that all was chemical:
friendship, love, passion,
which way to cook an egg,
dreams of future, dragoons of past,
never choice, but instinct:
lust for pleasure, avoidance of pain,
synaptic fires in the brain.

A bit of knowledge
can be quite the ponder,
a calculus of black hole
where once there was wonder.

Julie K. Shavin, born almost smack in the middle of the cruelest month, is a writer, composer, visual artist, and animal-welfare advocate. She is currently working with National Mill Dog Rescue. She has three children, ages 24, 19, and 12, and is president of Poetry West in Colorado Springs, CO.