National Poetry Month

In 1996, the Academy of American Poets designated April as National Poetry Month so while I’m most definitely not a poet, I thought I’d challenge myself to contribute something here.  This free-form verse was inspired by a memory from Amherst Junior High School, an ugly period of my adolescence.  Hope I did it justice.

Garbled Messages

We called her Garbled Messages,

Because, she spoke in fetal words,

Quivering, breathe-y, spitty words,

If you stood too close, you got sprayed in the face,

We never got that close or paid her much attention,

But the classroom silenced,

Shook up like a soda bottle ready to foam and cackle,

Whenever it was her turn to speak.

While we became sly masters of witticism,

The put-down:  Pass the ball, ass-face,

Quit being such a Gaylord,

Don’t stick out your tongue unless you’re gonna use it,

And the turns of phrase:  Twat did you say?

I cunt hear you.  I have an ear infuck-tion.  I need some penis-cillin.

We illuminated subtexts everywhere,

Since the subtext of everything was always sex.

I never looked at Garbled Messages,

Too much, though I wondered,

Was she retarded?  The greatest shame of Junior High,

She seemed the same as other girls,

Pretty even, though she wore a lot of make-up,

And dressed in ironed blouses and wool skirts,

Like her mom wanted her to bypass junior, senior high completely,

And go out into the world as a Secretary.

Still, we called her Tard and Dufus and Bocey,

At least behind her back,

Bocey, I later learned, derived from,

Board Of Cooperative Educational Services,

The place where all the Special Ed. kids went after lunch,

In the bus known popularly as the Retard Wagon,

I wish I could say that I never used those words,

But I did, so this is my confession.

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