The Sylvias

I wrote this after reading Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar. It has nothing to do with sea glass.

 

The Sylvias

 

By Christina Friedrichsen

 

The Sylvias do not stray.

They are obedient

to the word.

 

They are not distracted

by thingism.

 

They do not create

bubblegum for bling.

They do not dazzle in boardrooms

or dance for Men in Suits.

 

They refine their magic

when the children are in bed.

Warriors, they are,

those Sylvias.

 

Goddamn warriors.

 

But they pay.

 

They pay.

Suburban Smile

By Christina Friedrichsen

 

I live in the land of crescents,

not moons,

cul de sacs

all grey and smooth

and

litterless.

 

Houses polite and clean

like wedding invitations

in letterpress,

where neighbours wave

all Stepford-like.

Do they smell like apple pie?

 

Where is the crazy-ass

neighbour with fifteen cats and no satellite?

The one with bourbon on her breath

at 8 a.m.

Where is the mad man?

Moonshine in his pockets

and moon glow on his page.

 

Hiding under

a suburban smile.

 

A soft suburban grin.

 

 

 

Mouse Chops


black cat

This is my cat Caper.

She inspired this poem a few years ago. She has since become an indoor cat who goes a little hysterical for shrimp.

Mouse Chops

By Christina Friedrichsen

 

Black cat

chasing gull.

Bird flies,

cat cries.

 

Drat.

 

Mouse appears,

out of hole.

So much chutzpah,

that little mouse.

 

Splat.

 

Damn cat.

Eats mouse chops raw.

Leaves little mouselettes

without a ma.

 

Ahh.

Morning

I haven’t been to the beach in months. I miss the water. The glass.

But I’ve loved the winter months. I am an oddity, I suppose. I can’t imagine life without winter.

But I do know mornings like this.

 

Morning

 

By CF

 

The sun is a bully

shaming me out of sleep.

Mirror ball stars

all gobbled up now.

 

Light punches me in the eyes.

Left hooks me in the lips.

It will not leave me alone.

Stalking me,

at every window -

it sears

like the tip

of a madman’s

cigarette.

 

I flinch.

 

The dust

that you leave

behind, ignites

like

the moths

that form crowds

around torches.

 

Damn you

sun.

 

Relentless brightness.

 

Always showing up

on time.

 

 

140 Characters

I used to sit cross-legged on my bed, scribbling poetry into journals.

Now there is Twitter.

Where is that cabin the woods? The one near the beach-with-heaps-of-sea-glass?

I’m going there soon.


140 Characters (or The Dimwit Martini)


By Christina Friedrichsen


Communication is

as indelible as the white whisp of an airplane on a cotton candy sky.

Deep as paper, but stylish, with Ikea quality.


Embrace it, baby.


Condense.


Learn to love it. No. Love, love, love it.

Like the halo of shoes that floats above your head

or the shades of lipstick

that smear glossy exclamation marks onto your

pretend smile.


Do not lament

the yesterday scent of paraffin

on the bedside table.

The loops of ink

trailing on the page -

words written,

untexted.


Embrace it, baby.


The code of characters

140 strong.

Muscle up

on your whipped

cream words.


Pretend it’s a cocktail party.

Make-believe that the

dimwit martini

is going down

smooth.


Just don’t let ‘em

see you spit

it out

in your purse.



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