Friday, September 3, 2010

Taryn Dionne Spencer - Four Poems

Cherry Dots

My shoes are decorated
with red dots
I hate them
Today I know I won’t be
Wearing them
The girl next to me
Had similar shoes
on her feet
The same expression
on her face
as me
The same look
every victim
Before death
gobbles them up-
Empty, black as the chalkboard was that morning
In class
Beside letters that read
Mrs. Belinda Cash
And the moments I would color
at my desk--
bringing bears and myself to life
with a brown crayon
Desires deadened
by what should have been my first thought--

To run

So close
To base
Like a player of hide and seek
But I can’t move
My feet stuck to the ground
like Bubble gum in between paper after you’re
Chewed-out for chewing it,
Like vapors during the steamy bath Mom gave me
that morning
Minutes between an hour
In that minute, the bus made a final stop
I heard a BOOM, the girl who sat next to me dropped
And I came face to face with endless blots
Of red dots.

The Elephant Who Could Have Been Pink is destroyed in a First Grade Classroom

I didn’t have a gray crayon


I could not envision


In their bodies
They live


Through flourished
They stomp
Olive plains
In herds

Amongst mangy hyenas
Amongst curious jaguars

While cultivating thoughts
Of cooling
Sweaty trunks in magical waters-

In between a world

Colorful lives hued in blues and greens-
Shunning jungle disputes and dull human beings

As for you

Depriving me of a creative moment
Of a haunting vision that danced
In my head

Like ballroom girls
In the midst of

That Lady’s Daughter

Monday Morning
She walks in
Wearing sadness like a madam’s fragrance
left to dance down the street
Pedestrians giggle.
Her hair is coiled like edges of a brick home
Sprayed down with tar
And she has packed enough tea oil on it
To get it to look fine and curly like Mae’s
Monday morning,
She a be a coming down
The avenue in big ugly sneakers
As the children wait for her
As if they waiting for a premiere
They all will giggle.
Even Mr. Patruli who ain’t got
A pot to piss in—
Saying things like
“Hey tell your motha she owes
Me still.”
Even the toothless woman
Posing as a traffic cop
(at least once a week)
Her laughter is lost
In the morning buzz of honks and obscenities
The girl doesn’t hear any of this.
She hears-
“Be out there when I get back.”
“Be out there when I get back.”
And her mother’s voice blends in with the laughter
Of the children pouncing on pissy
Mattresses near the dumpster.
Monday morning,
“Be out there when I get back”—
Her head, hanging like a bent nail
On the brink of falling at anytime
When she walks inside of class
She sits behind Mary Joe
As if it is the only seat she will ever know,
and Mary Joe giggles.
Mary Joe whispers
In Ella Mae’s ear
That the girl’s socks are mis-matched
Although they blend in perfectly with her
winter coat that was once white
When she got it for Christmas
One Monday morning.

Menthol Letter 23

My odor is similar to piss stained
rose petals on a rainy October
as I sway by, tickling pure spring skies,
people’s noses crinkle like wadded paper.

I sing hazily to the pressured, the worker, a toothless bum,
or the guy who works on your grandpa’s car and refers to all of your friends as chum,
I’m easily detected in crowds of thieves,
child molesters, loyal masturbators,
pedophiles, places where pretty girls sit innocently
Their legs crossed in

their laps like they’re holding their hand
like a disabled child
I amble evenly, distributing
grisly fumes of mail-box-tin and a hint
of the postman’s sour skin by a touch
bound to disappear like an argument
unforgotten by next year

Taryn Dionne Spencer has a Bachelor of Arts in English and criminal justice from Sam Houston State University. Her favorite singer is Billie Holiday.

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