middle school/events - nadine kachur

Eighth grade:
didn't make cheerleaders
didn't make junior whatevers
didn't get Stephen B. for a boyfriend;
Roxanne, Miss D-Cup/Slut-mother
finds me crying by gym lockers
presses hard pancake into my pores
lipstick to my skin;
I turn towards the mirror and think: smeared clown.

part human, part answering machine - copyright © 1992 eristikös

Warble from the bomb in the living room:
it's the phone;
it's you
waiting on the other end of the line
to speak your precious words.
Do you call
to flatter me
or to flatter yourself?

Sometimes
I think I can feel your breath
even before the phone rings.
I am so sure I possess the gift of premonition --
but I am deceived.
I always think its you when the phone rings.
That should flatter you some.

I do not pick up the receiver;
I am mixed in my emotion.
I am filled 
with disappointment and distaste,
with strength and latitude.
I am angry that a friend could be so glib in his affections --
and at the same time --
amazed that I think I can afford to be so pert and saucy.
And all the while
what a fool I feel for wanting you...
I wonder...
will there be a time in this life --
even a moment too brief to measure --
when I can truly trust you?
I think not... 
but perhaps that is what I like about you --
that and the flesh of you.

I listen to your curt rebuttal.
I remind myself that you have betrayed me twice 
since the last time we spoke.
I still do not pick up the receiver.
I flatter myself.