It seems like thirty years ago, though it's only been three:
Seventeen.
When I was only an intern of grieving.
(Before I owned the concept, called it my life.)
How when one is hot, little insect sweat beads crawling down one's spine,
one craves a blizzard;
or how when one is cold, gusts weaving webs of imaginary frost along one's skin,
suddenly scalding water sounds like a feasible dip;
So, when one is, say, seventeen, lacking in freedom yet bearing a cup overflowing
with blissful irresponsibility,
one desires bills. Oh, to get mail!! To make money and need it!
That was me.
Wanting life experience, hoping it would be something like:
boyfriends, education, connections, and so on.
Didn't think it would end up like:
boyfriend, pregnancy, SIDS.
Can I revert to intern status now? Excuse me?
At seventeen, I felt like I was twelve. Now, at twenty, I feel like I'm a century old,
and dreading the future. What else can go wrong?
I'll take seventeen again.
Author notes
I realize this doesn't fulfill all requirements of the contest (music, clothes, politics) but it's all I can remember about being 17: irresponsibility, a clean slate, and so on.
Everything else is pretty much the same, as far as I can remember. Still Bush in the office and all.
A contest entry
- Twenty Seven by Judith Chandler.
525 points, ended May 11, 2008, 8 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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"An intern of grieving" - what an intense way of expressing it. I like the way you craved responsibility when you were 17. You certainly found it! Life has thrown you some curve balls. I hope you will have some happiness along the way.
Thank you for your entry.
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