Did you know there’s a statue on Eighth Street that looks just like you?
I saw it a couple days ago—Thursday maybe—and God, it’s uncanny.
They got everything down just right—the trimmed beard, eyebrows drawn into a frown, the bridge of his nose a little crooked—you.
You, the way you appear to me in dreams,
Stern and forthright, white eyes white limbs white teeth white everything:
Like calla lilies growing in the backyard,
Like glasses of cold milk coating your throat with film,
Like ghosts in movies with holes for eyes.
Even his hands looked like yours; big and rough—
You were always handing me things.
Discarded egg yolks,
Hunting rifles,
Invisible things kept in the gaps between your fingers.
They were resting at his sides but I could imagine what they would look like balled into fists.
Knuckles tensed and writhing under raw skin.
How they would be warm against my face when you covered my mouth with your palm and said
I hate you so much right now and
Please don’t make it worse.
Anyways, I thought about going back, sitting with him,
Freezing cold and still in my work clothes because I know you’d hate it,
looking him straight in the eyes and stuff like that that I never did with you.
Maybe telling him about how it feels to take molly from a stranger at a club
and how wings aren’t as heavy under the moonlight,
Maybe showing him the bruise I got the other day
And hoping he’d get some ice for it.
Maybe holding one of his brass hands.
So I hailed a taxi to take me to Eighth Street
and halfway through, I realized I had no cash and I shouldnt’ve told the driver that, but I felt bad so I did,
and he threw me out on the sidewalk which I bet he wanted to do anyways.
It’s cold just like I knew it would be
And I never could tell East from West
so I found a payphone and thought I’d call someone to get me
and I realized the only number I have memorized is yours.
It’s filed away with all the things I wish I could forget.
Like what a man looks like crying on the bathroom floor.
Like the ringing that’s left in your ears when you stand too close to a church bell.
Like the time that mouse died in your hands. Do you remember that? Did you know before it died that mousetraps come pre-poisoned?
I bet you did—didn’t you.
Don’t you realize that you can kill something without using your own two hands?
Do you blame the stones and the nails, not the Romans?
Anyways—it’s pathetic—I know. I guess I never really found someone else’s number to memorize and that probably makes you feel triumphant, doesn’t it? Yeah.
No, really, you’ve won.
You’ve won because there’s this sort of…chain…that’s fixed around my wrist at all times
and it’s always there, making everything feel wrong,
pulling me into alleyways I don’t mean to go down,
into church pews on my days off,
and I don’t catch fire under the doorway but I do feel these…
whispers of shame, running down my back like cold water,
like the way you used to tilt my head back in the kitchen sink and pour pitchers of soap over my hair.
And it’s getting to me, Dad.
Wrestling it’s way into my spine and
Turning all my white blood cells red,
Choking me at the place where my neck fuses to my shoulder,
Constantly inventing new things for me to be afraid of.
Is this what you wanted?
To wear me out so you could finally tack me to the wall above the mantle,
To keep me on this carousel of doubt until I forget how old I am,
To make me believe in you like I always wanted to?
Still want to.
On weekday mornings especially I sit in my empty kitchen and wish you would pour cereal into my mouth.
In springtime especially I wish to stand under a cherry tree while you shake the petals down and pretend it’s snow.
On my birthday especially I look in the mirror and wish
you had made me some other way.
Um—you don’t have to call me back.
I hate you so much right now
And please don’t make it worse.
I had to miss Wednesday class. Sorry I missed you all and will check all your creations. I really wanted to present a tool for creative expression that has really helped me. It would’ve been easier to just present it, I hope its clear if anyone wants guidance shoot me a email. Sending you all the best, Aya
6 responses to “Final Projects (Weds)”
Transcript & Link available here:
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1eC0TXmYx0ouV1xV2TVj5wqi4I4_lINbklJaamZDNwS4/edit?usp=sharing
Here is a link to view my final project “Fifty-two Food Haikus”:
https://www.canva.com/design/DAGCyyuO8Ig/OLrkgujfpi2-A9yU9fSEHw/view?utm_content=DAGCyyuO8Ig&utm_campaign=designshare&utm_medium=link&utm_source=editor
Voicemail From a Part-Time Angel
Did you know there’s a statue on Eighth Street that looks just like you?
I saw it a couple days ago—Thursday maybe—and God, it’s uncanny.
They got everything down just right—the trimmed beard, eyebrows drawn into a frown, the bridge of his nose a little crooked—you.
You, the way you appear to me in dreams,
Stern and forthright, white eyes white limbs white teeth white everything:
Like calla lilies growing in the backyard,
Like glasses of cold milk coating your throat with film,
Like ghosts in movies with holes for eyes.
Even his hands looked like yours; big and rough—
You were always handing me things.
Discarded egg yolks,
Hunting rifles,
Invisible things kept in the gaps between your fingers.
They were resting at his sides but I could imagine what they would look like balled into fists.
Knuckles tensed and writhing under raw skin.
How they would be warm against my face when you covered my mouth with your palm and said
I hate you so much right now and
Please don’t make it worse.
Anyways, I thought about going back, sitting with him,
Freezing cold and still in my work clothes because I know you’d hate it,
looking him straight in the eyes and stuff like that that I never did with you.
Maybe telling him about how it feels to take molly from a stranger at a club
and how wings aren’t as heavy under the moonlight,
Maybe showing him the bruise I got the other day
And hoping he’d get some ice for it.
Maybe holding one of his brass hands.
So I hailed a taxi to take me to Eighth Street
and halfway through, I realized I had no cash and I shouldnt’ve told the driver that, but I felt bad so I did,
and he threw me out on the sidewalk which I bet he wanted to do anyways.
It’s cold just like I knew it would be
And I never could tell East from West
so I found a payphone and thought I’d call someone to get me
and I realized the only number I have memorized is yours.
It’s filed away with all the things I wish I could forget.
Like what a man looks like crying on the bathroom floor.
Like the ringing that’s left in your ears when you stand too close to a church bell.
Like the time that mouse died in your hands. Do you remember that? Did you know before it died that mousetraps come pre-poisoned?
I bet you did—didn’t you.
Don’t you realize that you can kill something without using your own two hands?
Do you blame the stones and the nails, not the Romans?
Anyways—it’s pathetic—I know. I guess I never really found someone else’s number to memorize and that probably makes you feel triumphant, doesn’t it? Yeah.
No, really, you’ve won.
You’ve won because there’s this sort of…chain…that’s fixed around my wrist at all times
and it’s always there, making everything feel wrong,
pulling me into alleyways I don’t mean to go down,
into church pews on my days off,
and I don’t catch fire under the doorway but I do feel these…
whispers of shame, running down my back like cold water,
like the way you used to tilt my head back in the kitchen sink and pour pitchers of soap over my hair.
And it’s getting to me, Dad.
Wrestling it’s way into my spine and
Turning all my white blood cells red,
Choking me at the place where my neck fuses to my shoulder,
Constantly inventing new things for me to be afraid of.
Is this what you wanted?
To wear me out so you could finally tack me to the wall above the mantle,
To keep me on this carousel of doubt until I forget how old I am,
To make me believe in you like I always wanted to?
Still want to.
On weekday mornings especially I sit in my empty kitchen and wish you would pour cereal into my mouth.
In springtime especially I wish to stand under a cherry tree while you shake the petals down and pretend it’s snow.
On my birthday especially I look in the mirror and wish
you had made me some other way.
Um—you don’t have to call me back.
I hate you so much right now
And please don’t make it worse.
You can find my written poems on the google docs and when you scroll down you can listen to the audio versions:
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1w5ManBukImo5CIuzZ6xFIrmXjjcoWSbBs_m0b1-K2lU/edit?usp=sharing
I had to miss Wednesday class. Sorry I missed you all and will check all your creations. I really wanted to present a tool for creative expression that has really helped me. It would’ve been easier to just present it, I hope its clear if anyone wants guidance shoot me a email. Sending you all the best, Aya
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1mPeBnNVEQ-TlQWLqGC33vfLrjWoz40HWH4fsT-TyC_w/edit?usp=sharing
Link to the doc:https://docs.google.com/document/d/1r1KSmfSrhCOv_rD4cAwq6bVVS1ZuIOK57nCWv_ErltU/edit?usp=sharing
Google drive link to video recording:https://drive.google.com/file/d/1-3BG4MKhHeYNOuo6z-hcuVvrP29fTYAQ/view?usp=drive_link