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Creativity

Antique

I want us to have skin that has sunk
And floated round like dead leaves
From the little brook into the pond into the sea.
 
I want our teeth colored
By years of taking coffee and tea—
Yours with cream and two sugars
And mine black as peat.
 
And I want my eyes so worn from seeing great things
That everything looks like the rubbed-soft corners
Of the most beloved book,
With wrinkles like frayed electric wire—
Dangerous and badly needing taped,
Features like eroded mountain tops,
Volcanoes drowned into the ground.
 
My backbone will be twisted,
Mapped in curves like the oldest cypress tree.
You’ll be a fence post weathered from patience,
Rational barbs, and paternal necessity.
 
And if I want one thing to remain mostly the same
(Though it would become so lullingly fragile
Like a hardwood floor’s most traveled path),
It would be my head-shaped hiding spot,
Your body’s priosleeve; my pillow circa clavicle
And chest and under chin.
 
--Kazia Eastep ‘08

Naranja

Oranges. Oranges.
Siempre naranjas.
In my dreams, smothering,
floating spheres behind my lids.
And when I open them, plucking fingers.
Blunt, too masculine in their squareness.
Endless bottles of lotion,
cheap vanilla and jasmine,
clashing, never covering,
unripe orange.
Ten fingers, mine or mamá’s?
Inspected nightly,
arthritic knobs growing, twisting.
Not like Luisa’s,
perfect, pointing ballerinas.

Haunting globes, switched
To light bulbs in a blink.
Limping round a
hanging orange in the sky.
Sweating juice not sold in stores.
Boxed, and shipped back home.
Sol and tortillas,
and oranges. Siempre naranjas,
sour crescents on my curling tongue.

--Kristen Gochnauer ’07