What Would She Think of Me?

Today I submitted poetry and fiction to a magazine for the first time in 12 years. And I found this poem that strikes to one of my…obsessions? Themes? Here it is:

by Lyralen Kaye

I remember coming of age in Pennsylvania, the crack
of a just-opened bottle of Genesee, Jackson Browne

singing The Pretender, rage for what life should
have been, for what even then it was not. I believed in

everything but God—the sky, the convertible’s white hood, the
transformations of pot and LSD, the ability to stop

my father’s tired fist banging Manhattans into
his mouth each morning, my sister lying under boy after

boy on the golf course behind the house, myself from wanting
the wrong woman or any woman at all. The girl I was, ignorant

of life’s surprises, her choices a fist with fingers
fate peeled back to reveal a Crackerjack prize. And if she

dreamed of a prince, swashbuckling, red satin
at his hips, white shirt open over a tanned neck, dark

hair brushed back, she found him only in her mirror, the blush
of vino tinto and heaving breath at Los San Fermines after running with

the bulls, her own dark hair, her own skin. I see her, intransigent
fire and recklessness, the tears locked in that young throat, her

blue eyes staring out at me, and I look back, unmoving, trying
to withstand her judgment of what I have done with her life.


4 thoughts on “What Would She Think of Me?

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