What was the prize
The hard heart
only climbed ladders
never told light
the tin can
dirty finger nails
worn guitar strings
You said ‘get a job’
in her birth
Interpretation of a Dream
You have feet like gas pedals. I turn to my side. The feeling of a tickle behind a neck. You run past fear and into a piece of light and a door. A thousand small feet leave skid marks on the pavement.
They say it stems from anxiety in my waking life. You are clever. You escape the one big man with no big face. Your mouth mouths something to me. It sounds like a defense mechanism.
All I can remember is the long road not wearing stop signs. I remember the shadow of the man and heard him coming. The crowd’s dressed in nightgowns. You undress and then dress in some woman’s clothing, sit at the dinner table, and pretend to be the picture in the hallway.
They say it parallels my response to pressure. You never turn around. The new clothes are comfort. I adjust my pillow. The new house is safety. It’s true I don’t like confrontation.
Yes, I’ve seen these images before. My memory carries a shovel, digs it up. When my eyes open, they see fuzzy darkness. My sister asks me why I’m so private sometimes. I have feet like gas pedals.
Crisanta Martins is a first-year student at Boston University and resides in Boston, MA, but permanently lives in Rhode Island. At BU, she is currently enrolled in Writing 100: Poetry Now!