Megan Waring started writing poetry at age seven in a book with a horse on the cover.  She moved to Beijing on a whim where she discovered she likes meat on a stick but decidedly misses Western toilets. mmwaring@tumblr.com

Three Poems (October 25, 2011. Issue 32.)

What I Mean

The night before you left
I pinned you below me and bit you.

And when you whispered, "what are you
going to do with me?"
I said "kill you."

And what I meant was that I am going to devour you
and digest you so you can never leave.
So that every pore of me is really
a pore of you and when I sweat
it will be your tears and when I cry
you will have to wipe your forehead.

And what I meant was how will I know
that your heart is still beating if I am not there
to listen to it thump in the cage of your chest?
Better for me to tear it out and keep it
next to my diary where I can hear it
muffled in a drawer.

And what I meant was how will I sleep
if I can not time my breathing to yours?

And what I meant was the world is a hard place
and I would feel better if I could keep your fingers in my pocket
to lace through mine when I am scared.

And what I mean is
"stay."

Snow Man

When rolling the snowman
she uses bare hands
till they pink and chap and numb.

And she places his base on a rail
and gives him a Buddha belly
and upturned branches

of a weeping willow for arms.
She fits in stones for eyes
that she had dug out of a river bank

and carried in her pocket
to make wishes on.
His nose was a carrot,

that's what snow man noses are.
She didn't want him
to worry about rhinoplasty.

Around his neck she flung
a scarf she had knitted for a boy
who'd forgotten her name.

And when she was done
she dug a little hole in his chest and buried
the bodies of fireflies she'd loved so hard

she'd tried to keep.
When the whistle blew
she walked away and couldn't watch,

couldn't see the snow powder the train windows
and the scarf drift in the man-made breeze.
On her way home when

she passed the other snowmen
she knew they would melt,
having been loved and then forgotten.

While hers was loved.
And then.

Wednesday

My socks, pink frilled imposters,
and my shiny shoes, betray me. I plea to the scuff on the left toe
but it is not strong enough to stop them, they move forward despite me.

The white collar looms closer, his mouth working out the words
droning like a fly in sweaty summer, you are dust you are dust you are dust.
My mother's hand pushes me towards him, sacrificial lamb. .

His thick thumb dips into it, little bits crumbling off.
He brands me quick. It knocks my breath into the back of my teeth.
My mother and my laughing socks herd me back to our pew.

At first it is a slight burn but then, fire.
The ashes back to life, embers eat away my skin.
Its burning, its crawling, its consuming me.
I am dust, I am dust, I am dust.

I push past floral backs of grandmas and hurry to the bathroom.
When I cannot reach the sink I spit
into the palm of my hand and scrub.

I look into the mirror at my face, pink and raw.
Behind it, my mother's has fallen
under the weight of her daughter's cross.