Friday, February 24, 2017

2, by Caroline Gates-Lupton

Where I'm From: a list poem

Ithaca, New York
Warwick, Rhode Island
Northampton, Massachusetts
Libraries in Ithaca and Michigan
Chlorinated hotel pools and
Cold-water lakes
Toad-covered beaches
Sandy rocks
Lakeweed grabbing at my ankles
Roaring wind
Thunder in the ground
A tree bent double by an almost-hurricane
Roasting marshmallows in the fireplace
Audio books and
Visual books
Story time with Miss Fran
Ballet class with Miss Tanya
Dora sneakers
Dora underwear
Winnie-the-Pooh everything
Magic Treehouse on cassette
Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH
Science camp with Shannon
The almost pool disaster
Dance camp and
Writing programs and
Acting and film camps
My grandparents' house
The maroon carpet
Sharp black edges
Covered with rubber
Going for Yummies ice cream, every day
The wading pool
Mom's old town
My uncle's house
Ketchup bottle
Cottage summers
Dead fish on fire
Stuffed cat on the roof
Dad to the rescue
Cleaning the dock with
Broom and water
Bird poop and lakeweed
Washed away
Saving a half-drowned bee
Can it fly?
The bee at Camp Invention
Cupped in a girl's hand
No stinger, she says
Being young
The obsession of losing teeth
Breaking out and away
Short hair
Long hair
The warped world of glasses
Two trees in a yard
Make a forest.

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Our Colors

Purple. That's always been my mom's color. It's red and blue, mixed up and muddled together. My old color and my dad's color, combined. Red and blue, like a beating heart. Purple, like the deepness after sunset.

Pink. My sister's color. She sees colors in her head when she hears a name: blue for me, brown for our brother, pink for her. Pink, like a watered-down, sassier version of red. She wore the pink marker down to a nub and still won't let it go.

Blue. My dad's color, my new color. The shade of the lake before the clouds turn gray. Almost green, but lacking in yellow. The color of my grandpa's eyes behind his glasses.

Green. My grandmother's color. When I was little I thought of her in terms of her color and her animal. She was green with giraffes. Early-spring green, new-buds-on-trees green, watch-the-flowers-open green. My grandmother was a green giraffe.

Red. It all comes back to red. My old favorite color. The tint of my first two pairs of glasses. The shade of the cup I always drank from, plastic and chipped along the rim. Red isn't like fire, like everyone says it is. Red is hot lava and tulips and the near edge of a rainbow. Fire burns. Red smolders.