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.
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.
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.
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.
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.