Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Freshman Poem of the Week

Four years later, I would probably write this one a bit differently, but I like it. I hope you do to. Props to whoever can guess which line is my favorite.


Prom Queen

The golden hair
of our prom queen’s
broken French twist
batters her made-up face
in a gust of November air.

The black hand surrounded
by the soft pink fabric
of the back of her coat
trembles
from more than the icy wind.

The gray-blue tile
of the Planned Parenthood floor
reflects florescence into her
stormy eyes.

The periwinkle whisper
of a baby boy’s rattle toy
from memories far away
shatters her composure
in a crash of hail.

A tarnished silver tiara
behind dirty glass
in the pawnbroker’s shop
mirrors the passing
of a cloud-studded sky.

2 comments:

Chops said...

"The periwinkle whisper"

inos said...

well guessed, Chops!

it's probably the only line worth consideration, but well guessed nonetheless.