I can’t get past my own mind
or unharness my heart.
My wit is sheathed
and my humor only wants to take
I have a million
lists of to-dos
with daily carry-overs.
But the beat I hear
and can’t shake away from
Honestly, My Littles Should be Thankful for My Eight A.M. Appointment
I got my Genius
exam today (once
called a mammogram).
And the technician
gave me a sticker,
only instead of a small
oval I voted today,
it reads in a larger
teal circle: I got my Genius
exam today. With my family
female history, it’s imperative
to follow through every year.
And for the record—
there was not a thing Genius
anywhere. Neither the teck
nor I qualified as Geniuses.
The smashing machine,
operated by the technician,
therefore was disqualified
from attaining Genius status either.
Perhaps Starfishes or Anxieties
are more appropriate statuses.
Hold your breath; breathe;
hold your breath; breathe.
4x. And then I wait anxiously
for a call back or a letter in the mail.
But I will say the whole
ordeal was less of an exam
and more of an experience.
The smaller your (my) breasts
the more it hurts, I repeat:
the smaller the breasts
the more it hurts—there are
two breasts after all. And my
littles aren’t Genius
at this testing thing either.
After such an ordeal
I took myself shopping
and made a sumptuous lunch.
Melva Sue Priddy
If I could string my worries like beads
arrange the mismatched palette of forms
to a gratifying yet surprising pattern
I might choose to wear the bracelet
rub beads’ pointed edges smooth
shine them with traces of day’s rhymes
ice them when they fume and swell
threatening to bruise one another
I could leave them home one day
to tangle in a waiting box
or stand mid-bridge and break the string
the girl has given up
and putting things in place.
on throwing open windows
and breathing in old air
and pretending a different place
and different people
and different air
will solve all her problems.
so the books remain
the boxes stay
lined up like soldiers
waiting for command.
the girl lays down
and takes a nap
and stops thinking about tomorrow.
Cookies begin their mockery of me.
They look at me up and down then laugh at my stare.
Cake stands before me and laughs at my suffering saying
He just thinks its funny how I wouldn’t give him a second look last week
But all of a sudden I want his attention now that I can’t have him.
He rather go where he’s appreciated.
I wonder if there’s anyone out there for me now that I have my restrictions.
These internet doctors are just certified conspiracy theorists.
They insist bread will pump me with carbs
And fill me up until I burst.
They’re convinced health properties of milk was pure propaganda
told by the government
They want me to know that my whole wheat life is a lie.
They want me to juice cleanse myself of all impurities
But what’s wrong with being a little dirty sometimes.
My mom wants me to deceive my body.
She says Cauliflower can be mashed potatoes if I believe
Or it can be rice if I use my imagination.
Apparently, Zucchini can be pasta just because it looks like pasta
And coming from a woman who refused to allow me to believe in Santa
That’s richer than a classic cheesecake.
I try to stay supportive.
I keep my knowledge in the back of my mind
As I allow myself to comply by these rules
But I wait for the day
When I will be reunited with my one true love