You & Imagination Poems

So, I've got this assignment to experiment with sound. Other news today: I got a Publix sub and the lady making it hit on me. I had some jalapeño chips today. I sewed a hole in my friend Tre's Hawaiian shirt on the bus. My APES teacher is sick so I don't have to slave over completing my lab notebook tonight.

Anyways, I wanted to write something about flower and word metaphors. It ended up being a poem about how destructing love can be. I've only dated one person, and I don't think this speaks true for the relationship, but oh well, the poem became what it is. The second poem is about being bored in math class and my mind zoning out to someplace else.

You

The world ticks black and blind. Your lips outpour orchids. Words slip down the slope of your petal tongue. Your teeth are seeds settling in the roots of your gums; waiting to unfold into blossom. When you talk your mouth is a vase of wild flowers, the type that weed killer or fertilizer can’t tame. Some of the things you say flicker like flies, gone into a distance but with a buzz left beaming in the cavity of the ear. Being with you looks like lost foxes fumbling in ferns. I am the fox, red roses pinned to my toes and matches of fur lit with red fire. You are the gasoline and the sun that makes the ferns grow. The ferns encase my body like seaweed stealing the controls of my limbs, I swim sideways, gurgling and gasping for air in your presence because you are the jellyfish stinging in the skin’s salty wounds: forget me not when the sun streaks the sky and the night black dries white. And then I can see the wounds you’ve left: the damage, dear, of loving you.

Imagination

It is dangerous for a math teacher to wear that type of shirt: a shirt quite literally displaying blue waves of an ocean. Parabolas drool out my mind and I slip into something else: there is a boat and my two eyes are the passengers. The white sheet sail cries out in the fog for a direction.  My body belongs to the rusting floorboards; the boards dissolve, bleeding into the depths of the water. I boil down, hair fanning like anemone’s hundred arms, flowing from my scalp. I see the Earth in scales, shimmering like a sunshine I used to know where there was air. My body guilds into gills. Green seaweed floats besides me and I think of a memory, no a theory maybe: a marsh of hairy grasses that used to nuzzle to the ground with the breeze where I stood, looking over the Jacksonville marshes with my father, wishing I had binoculars to see into an existence I was too far away to reach.