Predator and Prey
I envy the zebra,
with her eyes plopped on the side of her head.
She sees the lion coming,
and she runs.
I am a human woman,
a predator,
with eyes at the front of my face,
apex,
indomitable.
Whoever made me did not consider that
I would be preyed upon by man.
Man, who hunts woman as he does everything else,
for sport.
Whoever made women did not think of us
swiveling our heads as we walk quickly through
the dark parking lot
toward our cars,
clutching our keys between our fingers.
Then, we do not feel so apex,
so indomitable.
Moleskiene
When you are a writer,
they always tell you to buy a moleskiene notebook
and to carry it wherever you may go.
I don't even know how to spell moleskiene.
Moleskin,
Molleskinne,
Moleskiene,
hmm.
I do not have a moleskiene,
yet I am victim to the idea of one,
that carrying a little notebook to fill with random prose
is, yes, a very good idea.
One of these days I shall think up something very
pretty,
and then I will write it down in my notebook
which is not a moleskiene.
I scribble and nothing is good in the moment,
then I come across it much later, and am impressed.
“I wrote that?”
I scribble and it feels incredible,
then I re-read it later and wrinkle my nose.
“I wrote that?”
This is the curse of the moleskiene,
the nightmare which is feeling
desperate to be profound.
If you try too hard, it will always be inauthentic,
yes, profound prose must come from the heart.
But then shouldn’t a moleskiene work?
I ask you:
will every thought you have ever had be profound?
No, it will not.
We are not frustrated
with the moleskines,
we areWildes frustrated
with our fickle creativities.
That is just the sort of thing you would scribble in a
moleskiene.
Wildest Dream
We look at you and think
you are our wildest dream.
A cool and errant breeze,
a twisting mountain stream.
Something which
is free,
and cares not what others think.
You are the breath, the life, the air
of us, past mothers;
you are the heir.
It is you who is our wildest dream,
tenacious, strong and churning.
Free.
About the Author:
Savannah Sisk is a sixteen-year-old woman living in the American south who spends most of her time daydreaming up ways to move to New Zealand. She has been writing ever since she learned to hold a pen.
Comments